


Newfound Family

by Carcajou



Category: Murdoch Mysteries
Genre: Edwardian Period, Fluff, Hurt/Comfort, Jack is a good dad, Llewellyn is a good dad, M/M, Period-Typical Homophobia, chosen family, supportive parents, they deserve to be happy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-01
Updated: 2021-01-12
Packaged: 2021-03-08 20:20:50
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 23,871
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27322636
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Carcajou/pseuds/Carcajou
Summary: Chosen families have always existed--even in 1907 Toronto.or Jack and Llewellyn fall in love, acquaint themselves with a street urchin, and oh they're parents now oops.
Relationships: Jack Walker/Llewellyn Watts
Comments: 27
Kudos: 73





	1. Brighter

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> TLDR:  
> Jack Walker swoons and smiles anytime he thinks about man he hasn't seen in weeks  
> Brackenreid provides some much needed comic relief, and George Crabtree says excuse me Sir that is nsfw  
> Llewellyn Watts is feeling that Gay Angst and he is very soft  
> Smol Street Urchin has an unusual job interview
> 
> Excerpt:  
> Jack: I believe you 100%, and also this detective guy is my friend and is Cool  
> Luc: sounds fake but ok

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This happens after The Philately Fatality

Jack Walker walked into his shop that morning knowing exactly what to expect.

One did not simply leave a butchery unattended for three days.

Obviously, Jack had no say in the matter. He had been arrested the day after Owen’s murder and held in the cells at Station House Number Four. They had found the real murderer, and Jack had been released without any charges—thanks, in no small part, to Llewellyn Watts.

Unable to stop his face from quirking up into a smile, Jack drew back the curtains to let light into the shop. The pungent smell of rotting meat mixed with damp sawdust only got worse the more he moved around. He propped open a window and got to work.

Even as he bagged hunks of spoiled meat, Jack couldn’t keep himself from whistling a happy little tune.

He had to get a lot done today: cleaning up the waste and salvaging what he could, in terms of bad meat and bad reputations. He had to try to smooth things over with his regular customers—he couldn’t afford to lose more business. He had to refill the ice box and grind the still edible meat before it went off.

Despite all that, Jack couldn’t quite find it in him to feel bad for himself. And it was all thanks to Llewellyn Watts.

Funny, mysterious, gorgeous Llewellyn. With those soft dark curls that Jack so badly wanted to comb through. With those jerky, unpredictable movements—legs crossing, hands twisting around, leaning in closer to Jack and yet not close enough. With those languid, poetic words that Jack kept playing over and over again in his mind.

Jack had never met someone quite like Llewellyn.

Grinning to himself, Jack tied up his bag of spoiled meats and headed out the back. He tossed it in the trash and paused mid-whistle as he noticed the boy watching him.

The kid was sitting on his haunches, trying to surreptitiously drink from the tannery’s water spigot next door. He stayed there, frozen, waiting for Jack’s next move.

Jack had seen the kid before. He was tiny, no more than 11 years old most likely, and he always wore a bulky winter coat that had seen too many winters. Jack sometimes hired the kid to deliver packages. Until last month, when the kid was supposed to deliver a set of roasting ducks to Mrs. Bewdley and nicked them instead. Jack hadn’t seen him since.

The kid was staring at Jack, wide-eyed and mouth half open. He looked very much the part of a rabid street urchin.

Jack could grab the kid and hand him over to a constable. The little thief would probably get sent to one of those industry schools for orphans.

Intentionally trying to appear less intimidating, Jack leaned against the brick wall of his shop. “Is that breakfast?”

The boy turned the water faucet til it squeaked to a stop. His eyes never leaving Jack’s, he slowly wiped the back of his hand over his mouth. “Would ya prefer if it was a rat?”

Jack smirked. “A rat for breakfast doesn’t sound too bad. With enough butter.”

“ _You’ve_ never eaten a rat before.” The kid challenged.

Jack shrugged, “No, but I figure it can’t be much different from squirrel.”

“Yeah? Well I have.” The lad smiled too wide, his voice hitting that annoying tone that was mixed bragging and whining. “I like ‘em raw. Fur and everything. _And_ I eat the tail last.”

The kid mimicked slurping a rat’s tail into his mouth.

Thoroughly disgusted but slightly amused, Jack pretended to ignore the lad’s choice of wild meat. “You know, the tanner doesn’t like your sort. He’s sure to take a switch to you if he catches you drinking from his tap.”

“Why don’t you tell him then?”

Jack raised an eyebrow, “Do you want me to?”

“You were gone a while.” The boy changes the subject quickly, but Jack noticed how he took a couple steps away from the tanner’s back door. And closer to Jack.

“Yeah I was.”

“Folks said you were dead.”

“Not yet.” Jack glanced back towards his shop, and his long list of responsibilities. “I’ve got too much to do to die at the moment.”

In fact, he had _a lot_ better things to do than be friendly with a young criminal-in-training. Jack wasn’t sure why he was acting like such a sap this morning. He wasn’t in the business of saving pitiable street kids.

Maybe it was finding Owen’s dead body, or getting unjustly locked up in jail, or swooning over a certain handsome detective—but Jack felt different today. Like the world was bright with possibility, and life was too short to be careful and detached all the time.

And maybe a couple minutes and a little forgiveness could go a long way to making this poor kid’s day better.

“Say,” Jack smiled sincerely at the lad. “I could use a hand with some deliveries today.”

\---

Inspector Brackenreid slammed his phone down with such force that it set all the constables in a 10m radius on edge.

“That’s it! I’ve had enough of this rubbish!”

“Is everything alright sir?” George Crabtree looked up from his work as his boss shrugged into his overcoat.

“Do I look like a rabbit to you, Crabtree?”

“No sir.” Crabtree crinkled his eyebrows in confusion.

“There is surprisingly little resemblance.” Watts chimed in from across the room.

Inspector Brackenreid scowled and stabbed his cane in Watts’ direction. “Six days I’ve gone without any red meat! It’s been nothing but rabbit food every night! Last night, our main course was turnip soup. Turnip!”

“New diet, sir?”

“It’s not a diet Crabtree! It’s a bloody death sentence!” The inspector shouted.

“That seems a bit dramatic.” Watts mumbled with his chin tucked in against his chest.

The inspector scowled in Watts’ direction. “Margaret’s refused to cook anything from the new butcher, says he leaves too much gristle on his steaks. I can’t take anymore of it. I don’t care if the old butcher’s a poof, I need real food!”

Crabtree put it all together. “Ah, you mean that Walker fellow from the case with the philately society!”

Across the room, Watts straightened up in his chair and seemed to go back to reading.

Inspector Brackenreid leaned in closer to Crabtree’s desk and lowered his voice. “Listen, he may be a pansy, but he knows how to handle his meat.”

It took an extraordinary force of will for George Crabtree not to burst out laughing.

\---

Llewellyn Watts was doing another pointless loop around Carlton street. He fiddled with a handkerchief in his coat pocket, his eyes darting around anxiously.

A month ago, late one night, his feet had carried him right to Jack Walker. Truth be told, he hadn’t even realized where he was going until he knocked on Jack’s door. It was an irrational and frankly dangerous decision. He was putting everything at risk—his career, his friendships, even his freedom.

Now his traitorous feet were carrying him back to the butcher.

A flurry of nervous energy almost had Llewellyn turning back around. But he realized it wasn’t a nervousness born of fright and dread. It was the same nervousness that electrified all the fibers of his being and set his heart racing when Jack held his hand.

With his feelings caught in his throat and his head spinning, Llewellyn Watts entered the butcher shop.

“We’re closing up.”

Llewellyn scanned the small front room. No sign of Jack.

The small child talking to him was scrubbing at the butchery’s white tile wall. Llewellyn guessed they were some age between six and sixteen, probably a street kid by the wild look in their eyes.

“Ah.” Clearing his throat, Llewellyn danced his fingers over the countertop. “Where might I find Mr. Walker?”

With the tiniest hint of a sneer, the child nodded towards the back of the store. Llewellyn hesitated for a moment, then he squirmed around the counter, almost knocking over a scale with his awkward limbs.

Taking a breath, Llewellyn tried to calm himself. He needed to explain his complicated feelings, and he owed Jack an apology for running out on him without—

“Detective, what can I do for you?”

Llewellyn nearly tripped over himself when Jack spoke. He was standing over a washbasin, drying off his hands with a towel and then draping it over his shoulder. Jack was smiling.

His stomach fluttering with nerves, Llewellyn couldn’t formulate a coherent sentence. “Oh. There you are.”

If it was possible, Jack’s smile grew even brighter. It was like staring into the sun.

“And here you are.”

“Mr. Walker, I… I need to talk to you.”

The butcher rolled down the sleeves of his shirt. His smile faltered for a moment. “Are you here on police business?”

Watts took a small step closer to the man. Jack’s work uniform was powdered with flecks of sawdust. Llewellyn had a strong desire to pick them off one by one, even perhaps the ones in Jack’s chestnut brown hair. But it was entirely possible that Jack didn’t want anything to with him, let alone his greasy fingers in his hair.

“No I’m…” Llewellyn struggled to say the words, making himself so vulnerable to rejection. “…this is a personal visit, Jack.”

The corner of Jack’s fine lips quirked up. He untied his apron and hung it up. Llewellyn couldn’t take his eyes off him. This man who had so thoroughly _seen_ him. This man who might reject him and his meager scraps of feelings.

“So you’re _not_ here to arrest me again?”

Jack was teasing him. Llewellyn’s neck flushed with heat.

“I was wondering if I, if I might be able to make it up to you?” Llewellyn swallowed loudly. “All of it.”

Then Jack reached out to brush his hand, and Llewellyn’s brain conjured images of bringing those strong, callused hands to his lips. He was most definitely blushing now.

“I like the sound of that, Llewellyn.”

\---

“Why did you do this for me?”

Mr. Walker glanced up from the invoice he was tallying on the store counter. He was chewing the back of his pencil while he focused.

It was a quiet Tuesday at the butchery. Mr. Walker had loudly suggested that it was a wonderful day to go see the musicians in Allan Gardens, and that he could manage on his own for the afternoon. But that sounded like a trap, and Joseph-Lucien was doing all that he could to stay in Mr. Walker’s good graces.

Pulling the pencil out of his mouth, Mr. Walker grinned at his young helper. “Remind me what I did this time?”

Joseph-Lucien studied the floor. “Why’d you give me this job?”

Mr. Walker hummed aloud and said, “I figured any kid who could wax poetic about eating whole rats would be able to stomach chopping up meat all day.”

Joseph-Lucien rolled his eyes and went back to wrapping blocks of tallow. Even though it wasn’t a real answer, it was a very _Jack_ thing to say, and that made him feel more at ease.

Regardless of the circumstances that got him here, Luc was having a damn good month. This work for the butcher was different than the other odd jobs he had picked up. Mr. Walker expected a lot from him, but he took the time to guide him through it. Even when he ruined it, Luc didn’t get beaten or screamed at. And the pay was twice what he could ever make selling junk or nicking stuff.

Luc had spent his first earnings on a clean pair of slacks and a white chemise, so he could look presentable. Mr. Walker had given him his very own apron, wool vest, and a nœud de papillon. Luc still couldn’t get the knack of tying it, but Mr. Walker didn’t seem to mind doing it for him every morning.

If Luc didn’t know better, he might have believed that the kid in his reflection was a respectable young man, malgré tout.

“We all deserve second chances, I reckon.”

Joseph-Lucien stiffened as he realized Mr. Walker was standing behind him.

“If you fold the paper up this way, then this direction, it’s better. Less leaky.” Mr. Walker demonstrated a little twist in the corner of the butcher paper.

“Yes sir, I’ll fix it.” Joseph-Lucien tried to mimic Mr. Walker’s wrapping technique. “I still don’t know why you hired me, s’not like I have any schooling ou rien.”

“Just because you didn’t have any experience doesn’t mean you don’t have any skill. You pick things up quick and you’re a big help around here. Don’t sell yourself _short_ , little guy.”

Luc kissed his teeth in annoyance at the ribbing about his height.

Mr. Walker patted Luc’s shoulder. “It was well worth the risk of losing another couple of roasting ducks.”

Joseph-Lucien turned around, eyes wide. _Merde_. He had assumed that the butcher had forgotten about that botched delivery.

Mr. Walker waved off the fearful look. “It’s alright lad. I won’t go out of business because of two stolen ducks.”

“I didn’t steal the ducks.” Joseph-Lucien blurted out. He couldn’t stand the thought of being a liar and a thief in Mr. Walker’s eyes.

Of course, Mr. Walker didn’t believe him. “Luke it’s—”

“No, it’s true, _j’te le jure_! It wasn’t my fault. I was cutting through an alley on my way to deliver ‘em, and I got crowded by a couple of constables. They took ‘em.”

Mr. Walker frowned. “Why would they do that?”

Luc should probably have shut his big mouth, but his pride wouldn’t allow it. “They said I stole them, so they had the right to confiscate ‘em, _supposément_. But it was them, the thieves. And they threatened that the next time they caught me stealing, they’d throw me in the cells.”

Mr. Walker rubbed the back of his neck. “You never told me.”

“No one believes kids like me.” Staring down at his too-big shoes, Luc shrugged. “I knew explaining it wouldn’t do me no good. I’m not an idiot. Coppers always pull things like that on street kids, s’nothing I can do about it.”

“Oh, I know!” Mr. Walker seemed to be struck with an idea. He rummaged through a drawer and pulled out a scrap of paper. “I have a … detective friend. He’s brilliant and very understanding, if a bit, uh, unconventional.”

Immediately, Joseph-Lucien thought of _him_ —l’homme mince, maladroit et franchement bizarre. The man had shut himself in the back room with Mr. Walker for a suspicious length of time. Joseph-Lucien had imagined it was something shady. Now that he knew the man was a copper, it was confirmed.

Writing as he talked, Mr. Walker said, “This is the detective’s name and station house. It’s the one on Parliament.” The butcher gave the piece of paper to Luc. “If you have any problems in the future, go see him. Tell him Jack sent you.”

Luc pretended to be able to read off the paper and nodded. He fully intended to toss it out later. But he still appreciated that Mr. Walker was trying to help. “Thank you, Mr. Walker.”

Pausing for a moment, Mr. Walker smiled at Luc and ruffled his hair. Joseph-Lucien wasn’t sure what he had done to be treated so kindly. He desperately hoped he could keep doing it, whatever it was.

“I had a very good joke about you devouring two whole ducks. It appears to be the wrong thing to say now.”

“No you have good reason to say it. The feathers are my preferred part. Gives it a crunch.”

“That is terrifying.”


	2. Jack and George Go To Scarboro

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> TLDR:  
> Jack Walker is a dad and he is not sure what to do with that information  
> George Crabtree is a gem and he is v supportive of unconventional family structures  
> 3 out of 3 main characters agree that Jack Walker has a pretty face  
> Llewellyn Watts is a sucker for anything that has to do with Jack
> 
> Excerpt:  
> Llewellyn: We can't bring a kid here. Jack, we're trying to be discreet. We can't act straight for shit. Jack, no.  
> Jack: Jack, yes!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This happens after Season 13, episode 11

Jack Walker was not expecting to spend his Friday morning visiting the police station.

As he stepped into the station house, he felt his shoulders tense up around his ears.

There was a small group of constables talking boisterously amongst themselves. Every movement of their arms, each blunt word and empty laugh, not to mention the lax grip on nightsticks—it all set Jack on edge. He felt their eyes follow him, and the likelihood of being known was terrifying. Any one of these constables could remember him from before.

With a momentous effort, Jack plastered a benign, confident smile on his face and strode up to the front desk.

“Good morning.” Clearing his throat, Jack forced himself to speak louder, like a man who had nothing to hide. “Is Detective Watts in?”

The policeman at the front desk shook his head. “Afraid not. Would you like to leave him a message?”

The small ray of hope was quickly dashed. Although Llewellyn wasn’t due back in town until this evening, Jack had been optimistic that he might have gotten back earlier.

“Unfortunately, this is rather time-sensitive.” Jack rubbed the back of his neck, nervous to put his secondary plan into action. It was risky, and so much was at stake, and not only for Jack.

Then again, according to Llewellyn, the man was kind and understanding. He could be trusted.

“Is Constable Crabtree here, by any chance?”

“Yes, you’ll find his desk right over there.”

As soon as Jack caught Crabtree’s eye, the constable leapt out of his chair.

“Mr. Walker! Nice to see you again!” Crabtree was smiling and smoothing out his uniform. He appeared more unkempt and haggard since their last meeting.

“Good morning Constable. I hope I’m not disturbing you.”

“Not at all! I’ve just returned from an impromptu scientific retreat. The hot air balloon was a treat for the first hour, but I believe the high altitude had an adverse affect on my constitution.”

Jack opened and closed his mouth. Llewellyn certainly kept some strange company.

“What can I do for you, Mr. Walker? I’m afraid the detective is still wrapping things up in Newmarket, but I’m more than happy to help if I can.”

Jack didn’t miss the way that the constable lowered his voice and kept his words vague. Nor did he find any ridicule or resentment in the offer. Perhaps Llewellyn was right about this one.

“My apprentice has gone missing.”

“Missing!” Crabtree hurried to pull out his notebook, already starting to jot something down. “When did you last see him?”

“Two days ago. He didn’t show up for work yesterday or today.” Jack kneaded his hands together nervously. “It’s not like him. At all.”

The constable made a sympathetic sound and nodded. “Any idea where he might have gone after work?”

“I uh—” Jack sighed. He should have pressed Luke harder for details about his life. He hardly knew anything about the lad. “I’m not sure. I think he lives in the Ward, near Elizabeth street. I’m sorry I don’t have much to go off of.”

“Elizabeth Street.” Crabtree looked up from his notes. “Did your apprentice ever hang around with more, ah, unsavory types?”

A fierce protectiveness rose in Jack’s guts, freeing his tongue. “He’s a decent lad. Yes he’s not from a privileged background, but that doesn’t make him any less deserving to be found.”

“Of course, of course Mr. Walker! I didn’t mean to suggest—” The constable held up his hands in surrender. “I think I might have an idea of what’s happened: there was a round up of vagrants and delinquents on Elizabeth two nights ago. I’ll place some calls and track him down as quickly as possible.”

“I want to come with you.”

“Sir, I’m not sure—”

“I won’t get in your way, but he’s my responsibility. I can’t just sit around and wait for news.”

Crabtree nodded, “We’ll find him, Mr. Walker.”

\---

Constable Crabtree did not disappoint. It only took him a few phone calls to find the officers from Station House 1 who had arrested a group of ‘degenerate street urchins’. The older boys were thrown in lock up, and the younger boys were carted off to a house of industry to be 'reformed'. The institution was a fair way east of town, outside Scarboro. But Constable Crabtree came to the rescue again! He had acquired an automobile somehow.

Jack was starting to appreciate Llewellyn’s opinion of the constable.

“I take it from Detective Watts that business is booming, sir?” Crabtree asked, his eyes briefly flicking towards Jack then back to the road.

A small warm spot inside of Jack appreciated that Llewellyn was bragging about him, and with his work friends no less. “Yeah, in fact it’s better than it’s ever been, getting things running smoothly, hiring more help. I’m even thinking of expanding the shop—much to my surprise.”

“Well, I daresay that you deserve it Mr. Walker. I heard that the shop was failing before you stepped in, that you practically resuscitated it from the brink of bankruptcy! It’s quite a feat!”

A little embarrassed and more than a little proud, Jack smirked and rubbed the back of his neck. “Seems I don’t need to pay for advertisements, Detective Watts is taking care of it all on his own.”

“It’s not entirely on him. I have to admit I’m somewhat curious, and I—” Crabtree shuffled in his seat, glancing over at Jack with a half smile. “Well, it’s nice when the detective opens up a bit.”

Jack smiled too. He decided then and there that he had to get Llewellyn to invite the man out for drinks or something like that. George Crabtree was a _gem_.

After a moment of unusual silence, George started up a tale about his own “entrepreneurial spirit” and his dubiously profitable ideas. Jack was pleased to listen to the zealous, personal stories until they reached their destination.

\---

The Refuge for Orphans and Other Deserted Waifs looked just as miserable as it sounded. Long stretches of empty farmland surrounded the buildings; a few hapless boys were digging in the fields, their eyes following the shiny automobile.

As they approached the house, Jack felt oppressed by the sternly trimmed hedges on either side, blocking them in.

“Not a very cheerful place.” Jack remarked.

Constable Crabtree muttered something under his breath, and then he gestured up ahead towards the main entrance. “This must be the Matron here to meet us.”

The Matron of the institution was a severe looking woman. Jack tried to put on his trustworthy and law-abiding adult face. He tipped his hat towards her. “Good afternoon ma’am.”

The matron ignored Jack and stared at Crabtree. “You’re the constable who called earlier.”

“Ah yes, Constable Crabtree, ma’am.”

“We weren’t expecting you so soon. You certainly made the trip in a hurry.” The woman’s tone made it seem like she was put out by their early arrival.

“Oh, yes luckily I had access to an automobile—otherwise we would have had to wait until evening to take the train. And I’m sure the young lad is eager to go home." Crabtree’s eyes darted towards Jack.

Had Jack heard that right? George had been willing to take the late-night train all the way to Scarboro just to help him?

“Hm.” The matron pinched her lips together. “You’ll need the Superintendent’s permission to take the boy. Follow me, Constable.”

The interior of the house of industry was somehow colder than the exterior. Girls in starched dresses were scrubbing the floors, and Jack was alarmed to see that their hands were ruddy from the cold water.

Passing by the girls, the matron snapped her cane out, striking the ground with a bang. George jumped, and the girls hurriedly stood up and chorused out a forced, “Good afternoon, sirs.”

As she led them through the building, the matron would occasionally repeat this procedure. Her blows were parcelled out to children who had the misfortune of speaking too loudly, working too slowly, or on occasion simply being present.

Jack needed to get the kid out of here.

“Here we are.”

The Superintendent’s office was like a private library. Walls of books filled the space, and the Superintendent himself was reading a tome on child development.

It was pleasantly warm in the office, with a cheery fireplace.

“Good afternoon, gentlemen.” The Superintendent shook their hands and gestured for them to sit in his plush armchairs.

The matron remained standing. “These men have come to collect one of the new boys. From the Elizabeth Street slum.”

"His name is Luke." Jack added.

“Ah, I see. You’re the father then, I take it?” The Superintendent asked him.

“Oh, no I’m not his father.” Jack was caught off guard.

“No? Then I’m afraid I don’t follow…”

In a rush to get the words out, without properly thinking them through, Jack said, “He’s my nephew.” Jack remembered he had a cousin who had moved to Montreal, who could have reasonably made a child with a frenchman. “My cousin’s lad. I’m taking care of him. Uh, while he’s apprenticing. At my shop.”

Hell. Jack had just lied. In front of a policeman.

“Wonderful! In that case, let me just find the record for you to sign, and Mrs. Edwards—” The superintendent nodded at the matron. “Fetch the lad and his belongings.”

Intentionally avoiding looking at the constable, Jack signed whatever file was put in front of him. Anything to get Luke and get out.

“The lad’s lucky to have a respectable business man to mentor him.” The Superintendent tried to strike up conversation, but Jack could only manage to nod.

The Superintendent turned to Constable Crabtree. “I’m sure you come across these cases often in your profession. It’s sadly too common for this poor lot to fall into dissolute ways and vices. Most of these children will be in jail or in a house of ill repute before long.”

Jack didn’t hear any sort of response from Crabtree.

Yet, the Superintendent seemed eager to keep on his bullshit. "Unfortunately, it is not entirely their fault. Much of their mental incapacity and deviance is the legacy of their parents' poor choices. Are you familiar with the works of Bénédict Morel and his—Ah, there you are, young man!"

Then Luke was there. Other than a shaved head and a new set of clothes, the lad was fine. Jack breathed a sigh of relief.

"Now, young man." The Superintendent patted Luke's shoulder. Jack fought the urge to snap at him. “Make sure not to cause any more trouble for your uncle. He’s giving you an opportunity to make something of yourself as a law-abiding, hard-working citizen.”

Confused for a moment, Luke caught on to what was happening and maintained the ruse. “Yes sir. I’m sorry, uncle.”

\---

The ride back into town was quiet. Jack kept trying to encourage Luke to talk, but the lad barely mumbled a few words and then went back to staring off into the farm fields.

Ever since they had left the house of industry, Constable Crabtree was acting odd. Rather than his usual smiling and chatting, Crabtree was tensing his shoulders and chewing at his bottom lip.

It was easy enough for Jack to guess what was bothering him. George had spent so much of his day helping Jack, and then he had been put in that awful position with the Superintendent. George was certainly furious with him.

“I’m sorry you drove all this way, I’ll reimburse you for the fuel.”

“What?” Crabtree frowned for a moment, pulling himself out of his own thoughts. “No, it was no trouble at all!”

“No I’ve—” Jack carded his fingers through his hair. “I’ve been far too flippant with your time, constable. I could have waited until Detective Watts returned, before I got you mixed up in all this.”

“Actually, I—one moment—” Without reason, Crabtree steered the automobile onto the shoulder of the road. He shut off the motor and leaned his elbows against the steering wheel.

“What’s the matter, constable?” Jack looked around, but they were sitting on a quiet dirt road with farmland on both sides and Lake Ontario off in the distance. No conceivable reason to stop here.

“Lad, do you mind giving me a minute alone with Mr. Walker?”

In the rumble seat, Luke flicked his eyes up at Jack, then at Crabtree, then back to Jack.

“It’s alright Luke. Just give us a moment.” Jack reassured the kid.

“Yes, sir.” The kid stumbled a bit as he got out of the automobile, looked back at Jack for confirmation, and then walked off the road to go sit under a stand of cedars.

Meanwhile, Constable Crabtree had been progressively hunching in on himself, his hands now cradling his head and his forehead resting on the steering wheel.

Jack worried he might be ill. “What’s wrong?”

George took a choppy breath in. “I keep thinking that that’s the type of place I could have ended up.” He rubbed his temples with the pads of his fingers. “I was very fortunate to avoid that fate. Even just stepping foot inside made me feel sick to my stomach.”

Jack hung his head in guilt. “I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have made you tag along. And not to mention implicating you in a lie to the Superintendent—”

“Did you hear him? How he talked about the children? In his mind, they’re already criminals and good-for-nothings!” Crabtree’s tone was biting. “It was enraging. People like that have no business molding young people.”

Jack had been preoccupied with finding Luke, but now that the constable pointed it out, the entire situation had been _horrifying_. “I never realized … I mean, I’ve never had cause to step inside one of those institutions before. It’s like they think the kids are cattle—or inmates.”

George looked up at Jack in earnest. “Mr. Walker, I hope I’m not overstepping, but I believe that boy’s very lucky to have someone who genuinely cares for him. It’s life changing, really. To have family.”

Rubbing at the side of his face, Jack had to be clear with the constable. “He’s not—Luke isn’t my cousin’s lad. I was scared they wouldn’t let him go, so… Sorry about that.”

“Who’s to say you need to be related by blood? You know, I was raised by a group of incredible women, quite unconventional in a lot of ways. I don’t know where I would be were it not for my Aunts.” George tipped his head closer to Jack and smiled. “You’re a kind man Mr. Walker. I can’t imagine that the lad could find a better father figure.”

Jack was struck speechless for a moment. No one had ever said he could be a good father. He had long ago abandoned any machinations of family or children of his own. The idea that he could claim Luke as his was nothing short of revelation.

\---

George was very much hoping that he’d be able to sneak back to his desk unobtrusively. Fate was not smiling on George Crabtree.

“Bloody hell Crabtree! Where did you run off to all day?”

“Ahhh!” George clutched at his chest. “Sorry sir. You startled me.”

Inspector Brackenreid tossed a file onto George’s desk, which was significantly more cluttered than earlier in the day. “Well, spit it out, where were you?”

George fiddled with his helmet nervously. He hadn’t gotten permission for absconding with Mr. Walker all day. “I was at the house of industry for orphans, out near Scarboro.”

“Why in god’s name were you in a dump like that?”

“What, a home for orphans?”

“No, Scarboro.” The inspector frowned in disgust. “I once had a bugger try to steal my place on the beach out there. It’s a ruthless place.”

George hoped he could distract him by switching topics. “That sounds awful sir. What did you do?”

“Easy, Crabtree, I yanked on my—hold on.” Inspector Brackenreid jabbed a finger into George’s sternum. “You still haven’t explained _why_ you were in bloody Scarboro!”

“I…” George fumbled around for a lie, but the truth won out. “I was helping Mr. Walker locate a young lad, who had been taken to the home by mistake.”

“You mean Walker the—”

“The butcher, yes sir.” George finished the sentence before the inspector could say something ignorant.

Inspector Brackenreid puffed out his cheeks in confusion. “What’s he doing looking for orphans?”

George explained the lad’s situation, including how and why they had needed to get him out of the house of industry. He leaned over his desk on his knuckles, remembering those cold, echoing halls; the slap of the Matron’s cane; and the patronizing judgement of the Superintendent.

George added, “Suffice it to say that institution is appropriately located. It was no place for children—much like the rest of Scarboro.”

“Ah-ha, very good!” Inspector Brackenreid barked out a quick laugh and slapped George on the back. “Now I’ll leave you to get reacquainted with your desk.”

George looked dejectedly at the mess of reports and files to be processed.

“Oh and Crabtree?” The inspector leaned in and smirked. “Don’t let yourself get distracted by a pretty face this time.”

It was surely meant to wound George’s dignity. But all George could think to himself was that even Inspector Brackenreid could appreciate that Jack Walker had a pretty face.

\---

“Jack, this is a bad idea.” Llewellyn rocked on the balls of his feet, glancing back at the door, nervous about being overheard.

“I’m sorry, I know you wanted to just have a quiet night in—”

“That’s not the problem.” Llewellyn scratched the side of his face, focusing on how to phrase himself. “You hardly know this child, and while I understand his housing situation is quite unfortunate, that doesn’t mean _you_ have to take him in.”

Jack crossed his arms tight against his chest. “I can’t just toss him out. I’d think you of all people would understand.”

Llewellyn hunched in on himself, uncomfortable with Jack’s frustration. “This is precisely why I’m concerned.”

“I know.” Jack sighed, reaching out to cup the side of Llewellyn’s face. “I know, but it’s just for a few days. He doesn’t know about our relationship. We just need to be discreet.”

In truth, Jack and Llewellyn did not have an excellent track record of hiding their romantic feelings. Jack was constantly fiddling with his partner’s clothes, sweet and flirtatious even in public places. But Llewellyn could hardly point fingers, when he so frequently caught himself making eyes at Jack, lost in the rapturous dream of him.

Suffice it to say, they could both use some practice at discretion.

For the moment, Llewellyn ignored his better judgement and let himself be pulled into a hug, tucking his face deep into Jack’s shirt. He smelled like sweat and automobile exhaust.

“You smell good.” Jack mumbled contentedly.

Despite himself, Llewellyn felt his face go red. He had quickly dabbed on the perfume Jack liked, halfway out the door of his flat. Unable to come up with anything better to say, Llewellyn groaned, “You smell unwashed.”

Laughing, Jack pulled back from the hug. “Yeah well I haven’t had the chance to clean up yet.”

“For both our sakes, I hope the opportunity presents itself soon.”

“Well, _Detective_ —” Jack smacked him in the arm playfully. “We’d best get out of here before Luke starts to suspect something untoward.”

Stealing a quick kiss, Jack opened the door and stepped out into his apartment’s sitting area. Llewellyn followed behind him, trying to appear normal.

Apparently the kid hadn’t moved at all. Luc was still sprawled belly-down on a rug. He was flipping through the Jumping Jack picture novel that George had given him. He scurried to his feet when he noticed them enter.

Struck by the lad's small and rail-thin frame, Llewellyn slouched to make himself appear at least somewhat less intimidating.

Ever confident, Jack smiled brightly. “Well, should we get started on dinner?”


	3. A Quiet Night In

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> TLDR:  
> Llewellyn Watts' love language is gentle teasing and food  
> Jack Walker calls Llewellyn "love"  
> Smol Street Urchin looks at Jack and Llewellyn and is like, there is no straight explanation for this
> 
> Excerpt:  
> Watts: I had a tough time, losing my parents, my sister, my brothers. I felt very alone before I met Jack, and I realized I didn’t have to be alone, because I could make a new family and be happy.  
> Luc: RIP to you but I’m Different  
> Watts: ...  
> Luc: *crying and holding onto Jack like a lifeline* I'm Different

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Translations of French comments are in the end notes!

There were a lot of children roaming about the streets of Toronto. Llewellyn Watts usually didn’t have cause to associate with them. Unless he was looking for a semi-reliable lead. It took worryingly little coin to grease the palms of the newsboys, blackboots and flower girls.

Otherwise, the street kids just became a part of the scenery. One mass of tangled hair, serious faces, small tinny voices. They were all the same picture of despondency. Of neglect. Of abandonment.

He remembered what it was like to grow up too fast, what it took to survive. Suffice it to say, Watts could empathize with the challenges young people faced in this city.

Still, he wasn’t prepared to be spending an evening with one.

“Careful, that’s sharp.”

Luc glared at Watts, a large cooking knife clutched in his slender hand. “Obviously. I’ve used knives before.”

While the pheasant was roasting in the oven, Jack was taking the (much needed) chance to wash up in his en suite washroom. And so Llewellyn was left to supervise the child.

“I feel obligated to tell you that that seems a precarious position—for handling a knife.” Llewellyn gestured at the lad. Luc was kneeling on a chair so that he could work on the dining table, a pile of vegetables laid out in front of him.

Luc glared again and went back to chopping. He turned the heavy knife flat to table, crushing several cloves of garlic at once. He squared and minced them with ease.

Llewellyn hunched further down into his chair, his arms crossed over the backrest and his chin buried into them. The child did not like him. Llewellyn typically would pay it no mind, but clearly the lad was special to Jack, so he was trying to make a connection.

What made people like you? Compliments? “You are particularly good at cutting vegetables.”

Mumbling under his breath in French, Luc retorted, “ _C’est bébé lala_.”

And now the lad thought Watts was patronizing him. What a dizzying turn of events.

“Ah, excusez-moi.” Llewellyn cleared his throat, “J’ai de la difficulté à m’exprimer. Disons alors qu’à ta place, j’aurais certainment perdu un doigt.”

Luc stared at Watts. “Oh.”

Llewellyn perked his head up a bit. He had captured the lad’s attention!

“Oui, en fait, Monsieur Walker m’a défendu de toucher ses couteaux de cuisine.” Llewellyn tapped his fingers along the edge of his chair. “Heureusement, j’ai survécu mon manque d’habiletés culinaires jusqu’au présent.”

A small smile escaped on Luc’s face. “C’est de valeur. J’aimais ben aider dans la cuisine chez nous. Un jour j’ai—"

Luc seemed to freeze, as if he had said something incriminating. Llewellyn imagined home life was a sore subject for the lad.

After a moment chewing the inside of his cheek, Luc twisted his face into a sneer and swung his knife into the air in front of him. “You know, I had a knife twice this big, and terrible sharp, and I’d sleep with it under my arm. Some of the places I’ve slept—not so pleasant. But if I had any trouble, with dogs or people tryna mess with me, bien, _that’s_ why I’m so good with a knife.”

The story seemed like an empty attempt at bragging, or perhaps intimidation. Before he could censor himself, Llewellyn said, “That’s not very believable.”

“I’m not lying! Here I’ll—” Luc tried to stand up from the table, but his foot caught underneath him.

As if in slow motion, Llewellyn watched as the child pitched forward off his chair, the knife dropping from his grasp, his arm swinging out to smack the table, his other arm barely bracing his fall to the floor, a jostled glass shattering at Llewellyn’s feet.

Luc started crying.

“Jack!” Llewellyn barked out in a panic.

Llewellyn crouched next to the lad, his hands immediately checking for a neck injury.

“Get off!” Luc squirmed away from Watts, kicking him rather hard in the shins.

On the bright side, at least the kid didn’t have a severe spinal injury.

Jack ran out of his bedroom in nothing but his pants, clearly in a state. “What happened?”

“Luc fell while he was chopping vegetables—”

“Did he cut himself?!”

“No the knife went under the table—Watch out for the—”

Jack cursed as his bare foot met a piece of broken glass.

That set the kid off crying again. Jack stepped back from the mess.

“I’ll deal with that,” Llewellyn offered, gesturing with his eyes for Jack to take care of Luc.

Moving slowly and gingerly, Jack crouched down closer to the lad, who was sobbing into his knees. “You alright?”

Through hiccuping tears, Luc stumbled through a blubbering, nonsensical apology.

“Hey, it’s okay, just breathe, with me, there you go. Can you sit up? Does it hurt anywhere?”

While Jack did a wonderful job comforting the child, Llewellyn made himself useful sweeping up and putting the knife away. But he kept surreptitiously sneaking glances back at them.

Luc was hugging his knees tight against his chest, staring at the floor in front of him. Jack was sitting beside the lad, kneading his hands, and worrying his bottom lip. Oh and he was shirtless and freshly cleaned and his hair looked soft to the touch. All important information to file away for later.

Luc tried to apologize again. “I’m so sorry, I can pay you back.”

Jack’s voice was gentle, soothing in a way Llewellyn was most familiar with. “Forget about that, it was just an accident.”

“Please don’t fire me, Mr. Walker, I—” Luc’s voice cracked with emotion. “I promise, I’ll work twice as hard! _Please_. I’ll do anything.”

“I’m not—" Jack seemed completely caught off guard by the begging. “It’s not that big of a deal.”

Luc hid his face behind his crossed arms.

Sitting on his heels next to Jack, Llewellyn spied a piece of garlic clinging to the sleeve of Luc’s chemise. The lad seemed in no state for physical contact, so Llewellyn hummed to get his attention. “Humour me for a moment, if you will. So, you’ve just broken a cup, knocked over some vegetables, and caused a minor ruckus. Oh and my shin might have a bruise. Is that it?”

Luc was still hiding behind his arms. Watts wasn’t getting a peep out of him.

“Mr. Walker, would you say that about sums up the damage?”

Jack nodded. “Yeah, I think so.”

“He cut his foot.” Luc added, muffled and quiet.

“Oh yes, quite right, lest we forget.” Llewellyn snapped his fingers. “Though I will point out that Mr. Walker stepped right into that on his own accord.”

“Glass is see-through, Watts!”

“I shudder to think how you handle windows.”

Luc let out a small chuckle.

“Regardless, the total sum of our losses is an unremarkable cup, some scrapes and bruises, perhaps a slightly less flavourful supper.” Llewellyn rubbed at his chin and frowned. “Do you believe that Mr. Walker would fire you and kick you out into the street for that?”

Luc made a noncommittal shrug, his puffy red eyes peeking over his hands. He still wouldn’t look directly at either of the adults, but he was holding his arms more loosely around himself.

Jack seemed to catch on to the point that Llewellyn was making, and added, “I would never toss you out. Luke, I was so worried when you went missing. I spent all day trying to find you.”

“Ah yes, gallivanting about Scarboro with Constable Crabtree.” Llewellyn didn’t miss the way that Jack rolled his eyes at the comment. “Not that it was extremely challenging, but it took some time and effort. Why do you think he did that?”

“Because I’m a good worker.” Luc answered, somewhat defensively. Less confident, he mumbled, “Even though I missed two days.”

“Well, young man, I was trying to lead you to a different conclusion, but alas—” Llewellyn gestured with his hands. “Yes, if nothing else, you are very valuable to Mr. Walker as an apprentice. Tumbling off of chairs isn’t going to change that.”

Luc flicked his eyes up at Jack, then back down to his hands.

“It’s true.” Jack laid a hand on Luc’s shoulder. “You could eat all the ducks in the world and that wouldn’t change.”

The lad visibly relaxed and leaned into the affection. Jack was clearly a natural at this.

Noticing the piece of garlic on Luc’s sleeve, Llewellyn plucked it with his thumb and forefinger. He brought it to his nose to inspect, found it quite pungent, and popped it into his mouth.

“Did you just eat that?” Jack said incredulously.

“I’m quite partial to garlic.” Llewellyn explained.

“This is why you’re not allowed to cook.”

“I thought that was because he could cut his finger off.” Luc joined in on the teasing.

“Yes that too,” Jack nodded, smirking at Llewellyn. “He also tends to forget to check that things aren’t burning.”

Llewellyn crinkled up his nose. “Did you know that some neo-hegelians believe that time is merely ideal; the flow of time but an illusion.”

“What about dinner time? Is that not real?”

Llewellyn scratched his jaw. Jack knew his weak points too well. “Well played, Mr. Walker.”

\---

“You left me alone with the child for ten minutes and he nearly stabbed himself.”

“That’s kids for you.”

“I’m clearly out of my depth, not to mention he hates me—"

“Could you get the oven door, love?”

Llewellyn squeezed behind Jack to close the oven. Jack carried the roasted pheasant and root vegetables to the dining table. They had already set the table, lit by the glow of three shabbat candles.

Jack set down the pan and flipped the dishtowel over his shoulder. “Llewellyn, you’re doing _fine_. Don’t worry so much.”

“Easy for you to say, he already adores you.”

“I mean, it’s…” Jack sputtered to a halt, his face red and his left hand fiddling with his dish towel.

Caught up in the moment, Llewellyn reached out to thread his fingers through Jack’s. “Not so surprising, I’ll admit. What with the warmth that you exude. Of course, he would feel safe and cherished in your presence.”

With a quick squeeze of his hand, Jack let go and got started with carving the bird. “I hear you’ve been singing my praises to Constable Crabtree.”

It took a moment for him to process the tone in the quick change of subjects. Llewellyn hunched in further on himself. He had never had a partner to brag about prior to Jack. “Ah, is that not the accepted convention? I thought because George already knew about us—”

“Oh no, I didn’t mean it was a bad thing. In fact, I—” Jack stopped himself as he heard his bedroom door open. He whispered, “Later.”

Spruced up, Luc joined them at the dining table. He had one of Jack’s bowties hanging loosely around his neck. Llewellyn watched on with enchantment as Jack fluidly re-tied the knot, as if this were something they did together oftentimes.

The lad was quiet, his face still a bit rosy from the earlier commotion.

“This looks delectable.” Unable to resist the temptation any longer, Llewellyn tore a piece of challah and use it to sop up the juices at the bottom of the roasting pan. He stuffed the whole piece of challah into his mouth, rewarded with a burst of flavours. “And it tastes good as well.”

Jack laughed, “That’s our cue to start eating, Luke. Before Watts licks the plates clean.”

As they sat down to eat and Jack served them, Llewellyn used his fork to gesture accusingly at his friend. “I don’t believe that’s his name.”

“What?”

Llewellyn pointed at Luc. “I don’t think Luke is his correct name. Is it, young man?”

Luc stared back wide-eyed. “I-I don’t, uh…”

“It’s _Luc_ , not Luke, right?” Llewellyn said, drawing out the difference in vowel sounds. “As someone with an uncommon given name, I can attest that it is quite frustrating to correct people time and again.”

Jack slapped his knees, grimacing in confusion. “Wait, I’m saying it wrong? Leck? Is that it?”

“Luuuc.” Llewellyn enunciated.

“It’s okay!” Luc exclaimed, shuffling in his seat uncomfortably. “It’s not a problem.”

“Sorry, my French is pretty awful,” Jack lied. His French was absolutely atrocious.

“Ça fait pitié.” Llewellyn tipped his wine glass in the air, as if he was toasting to Jack’s linguistic skills. “Unlike these roasted beets, might I add. Quite good.”

Jack beamed and dished out more of the root vegetables. Llewellyn busied himself with eating for a few mouthfuls, savouring the fresh zing of dill and the earthy tenderness of the grouse.

However, Jack wasn’t eating at all, fixated instead on Luc’s plate. “Do you need more sauce? No? Well the bread’s over there, if you want some. And don’t worry about taking too much, there’s plenty for the three of us.”

Rolling his eyes, Luc sassed back, “I’m not starving!” Then adding a quiet, “…sir.”

Llewellyn snickered with a mouthful of food, a stray morsel falling into his lap.

Jack looked at him disapprovingly, but he seemed somewhat aware of his own ridiculousness. “I imagine they didn’t feed you well in that so-called Refuge.”

“S’not so bad, two warm meals a day.” Luc shrugged. “The place back in Hull was better tho. At least les Soeurs knew how to cook.”

“You’ve been in a place like that before?” Jack said in surprise.

“Just for a little bit of time. But nobody liked me there. I left as soon as I could find enough money for the train to Toronto.”

Llewellyn jumped in, “So you were born in Hull?”

It was physically apparent how Luc shut down again, his body posture guarded. “No.” He pushed the vegetables around on his plate.

Glancing over at his partner, Jack rescued Llewellyn from another awkward silence by launching into a story that George had recounted earlier that day.

Trying to appear unbothered, Llewellyn reminded himself that it was not perplexing that the lad should despise him. His instinct to conjecture and interrogation were ill-suited for this particular social atmosphere.

Besides, Jack was friendly and charming enough for the both of them.

\---

“Who’s that?”

Mr. Watts tilted his head forward at a funny angle, using one finger to save his spot in his reading. “Hm?”

It was late evening. Mr. Walker had stoked the fire, so that the salon was warm and punctuated with dry wood crackling. The two adults were comfortably settled into their chairs, reading and chatting occasionally.

“Sorry, what was that?” Mr. Watts leaned forward in his armchair. Well, as much as he could lean when he had one leg tucked underneath him and an arm draped behind the back of the chair.

Joseph-Lucien shuffled on the nice rug, again not sure that he cared to start a conversation with the copper. But he had been rude at supper, and he should be grateful to have a roof over his head tonight. The least he could do was act decent with Mr. Walker’s friend.

“Mr. Walker said he wouldn’t tell me.” Luc tried to explain. He pointed at the small photograph on the end table; there were three kids, smiling on the steps of a house. “That’s you in the middle, ouais?”

“Correct.”

Luc resisted the urge to roll his eyes. Apparently, the man was angry at him. Or at least, he wasn’t chittering and asking questions so much. Luc prompted, “And the other two?”

“Ah, these are my brothers—that’s Danny and that’s Hubert.” Mr. Watts picked up the photograph and drew it closer to him.

Luc understood from the way that he stared at it that his brothers were probably dead. “They were, um, des jumeaux?”

“Hm? Oh yes, twins. They… were just a few years younger than me. They accepted me without question. We weren’t—their mother essentially took me in when my parents died and my sister left—and now it seems I’m rambling.”

Uncertain what to say, Luc glanced back at Mr. Walker. He was still staring at the block of wood in his hands, but he was listening.

“They look nice.” Luc didn’t know what else to say.

“They were very sweet. I miss them dearly.”

Feeling guilty that he brought it up, Luc touched the edge of the frame. “I have 4 brothers and 7 sisters. They were all older than me. Except for ptit Joseph, but he died when he was a baby.”

Mr. Watts nodded and offered Luc the framed photo. “Do you have any mementos of them?”

“What’s that?”

“Something to remember them and feel connected to them in some way. For instance, a photograph. Or—” Mr. Watts rolled out of his chair, moving like a soft-boned cat rather than a proper adult. He went back to the dining table. “It could be an object that they used.”

He brought back the couvert du pain, a soft white material with leaf broderie on the edge. “This was my mother’s. And this—” Mr. Watts lifted the book he was reading. “Was my father’s.”

Curious, Luc touched the small stitches on the couvert, much more accomplished than any finger-numbing attempts he had ever made. He frowned at the cover of the book; he could identify a B, but the words didn’t seem to be in English. “What’s that say?”

Mr. Watts spouted some foreign words, then translated. “It’s Nietzsche’s _Untimely Meditations_ , in German. Fascinating. Quite bleak. Yet I find it somewhat comforting to re-read.” 

The pages were dog-eared and filled with bookmarks sticking out at odd angles. Luc remarked to himself how strange it was that Mr. Watts had all these personal items in Mr. Walker’s apartment. He must spend a lot of time here.

Luc had assumed their relationship was some sort of corrupt or illegal thing, perhaps with the copper forcing Mr. Walker to give him information. Luc had even daydreamed that the detective had coerced Mr. Walker into chopping up a body for him. But the more he got to know Mr. Watts, the less likely that seemed.

“My father always had a book with him,” Mr. Watts ran his fingers over the edges of the pages. “We had so little time together. But, sometimes, I can almost picture him, with his hands—” He took a little breath in and held it for a moment. “On these pages I’m holding.” He shook his head dismissively. “I cannot find the words to do it justice.”

“That’s really beautiful, Llewellyn.” Mr. Walker was leaning back in his chair, watching them.

Mr. Watts did a funny half smile and tilt of his head. “It’s not so hard now, the loss and grief of it. Despite the risk of further hardship, one creates new bonds—new family—and one finds one’s self restored.”

Mr. Walker grinned at Luc. “What about you? Do you have any dense german philosophy books handed down through your family?”

Luc felt out of place, in this pretty little salon—trop chaleureux, trop doux pour remplir de sa misère. He shrugged, “I didn’t take anything with me when I left. Didn’t need that weighing me down.”

He didn’t mention that sa mère wouldn’t have given him a cent anyway—none to spare, certainly not for a useless idiot like Luc.

“That must have been difficult.” Mr. Watts sounded genuine, probably imagining Joseph-Lucien shivering in the streets on his own.

He was right, of course, but Luc didn’t want him to think that. “Not really. I can find or take most things I need to survive. S’not like I can’t take care of myself.”

The two adults exchanged a look. The gesture was so domestic and pitying, Luc could have hurled.

“I’m serious!” Luc drew himself up to his full height, which barely brought him face to face with the copper who was sitting down. “I would have eventually gotten out of that jail house on my own, too. I just needed to get some money for the train, and some, and…”

Breathing felt hard, like it did sometimes when he got himself worked up. _Trop faible_. _Elle s’en tirera jamais un mari à piquer des crises comme ça._ _Obstinée à en crever._

A gentle rubbing on his back. Mr. Walker was being so nice to him. Slowly, Luc evened out his breathing. He hadn’t cried, so that was promising.

“I would have been okay.” Luc repeated himself, trying to keep down the panic he had felt.

Carted off to jail again, the first thing they did was shave your head, and Luc hated that. Then there were the rules, and the punishments—the aching bruise from the caning still rough on the back of his thighs. But the worst was his nearly catastrophic attempt at changing clothes, knowing he couldn’t risk getting caught.

He was scared.

“You’ve been really strong.” Mr. Walker was still rubbing his back. “You don’t need to worry about that place, because you won’t be going back there. Not while I’m around.”

Despite himself, Luc let out a pitiful sniffle. He let his shoulders drop and leaned into Mr. Walker’s side.

“It’s been a long day. Why don’t we get some sleep, and talk about it in the morning?”

Once he heard the words, Luc recognized how bone tired he truly was. He yawned and nodded.

“Right, it’s late.” Mr. Watts rolled himself out of his armchair. “I should be going.”

“You’re not staying?” Luc’s mouth shot off unbidden.

The two men shared a fugitive glance. Mr. Walker floundered to explain, “There’s only one bed. I mean, that’s not to say—I’m sure I can set you up comfortably, perhaps in front of the fireplace. With blankets, not right on the floor.”

Luc frowned, confused again in his assumptions. “Oh, okay.”

Mr. Walker was smirking in an odd way. “Would you like it if he came back tomorrow? Watts, you’re not working, right?”

Mr. Watts had picked up his hat, clutching it tightly against his chest. “I am unconscionably unfettered.” He turned the hat over in his hands. “But I suspect Luc would prefer not to have visitors. Perfectly reasonable.”

“I don’t mind,” Luc interjected. “I mean, if you want.”

“Terrific!” Mr. Walker was grinning excitedly, and Luc felt very sure that he had made the right decision. “We can go visit the park, it would be a lovely day to stroll through the—”

“—Allan Gardens.” Luc and Mr. Watts finished simultaneously with no enthusiasm.

“Oh, come on, what’s wrong with Allan Gardens?”

“Fresh air is superb, and I enjoy large plants as much as the next man, but I do believe you could aim a bit higher than that, Jack.”

Luc cackled, “He thinks it’s the best place in Toronto. J’te niaise même pas.”

“I distinctly remember _someone_ raving about the sausage cart there."

"I'm starting to appreciate your logic."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (1) “It’s so easy a baby could do it.” (sic)  
> (2) “Oh, pardon me.” Llewellyn cleared his throat. “I have a hard time expressing myself. Let’s just say that if I was in your position, I would have certainly lost a finger.”  
> (3) “Yes, in fact Mr. Walker forbade me from using his kitchen knives.” Llewellyn tapped his fingers along his chair. “Luckily, I have survived my lack of culinary skills up til the present.”  
> (4) A small smile escaped on Luc’s face. “That’s too bad. I really liked helping in the kitchen back home. One day I—”  
> (5) “It’s pitiful.”  
> (6) Too weak. She’ll never snatch a husband throwing fits like that. Headstrong to the point of dying.


	4. Poetry

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jack Walker is Wonderful  
> Aldous Germaine is an Astrology Queer, I checked, it’s canon (I think he’s a Cancer)  
> 80% of queer parties is being salty and 19% is sharing traumatic experiences  
> Llewellyn Watts has poor circulation and low-key anxietyTM  
> George Crabtree says Gay Rights
> 
> Excerpt:  
> George: Watts and Mr. Walker are great and I love them  
> Luc: ...but they're gay?  
> George: Did I fucking stutter?

Jack Walker was so excited to finally introduce Llewellyn to his friends.

It was lovely spending time just the two of them. And they had even gone out with George Crabtree a couple of times, which Jack welcomed. But still, they had to be so careful out in public. 

For example, as they walked up the street to the party, Llewellyn trailed behind Jack by ten paces. The precaution was not entirely necessary, but Llewellyn was nervous. Jack could understand that.

Jack turned on the pathway that led up to the side of the house, pausing behind the hedge while Llewellyn caught up.

Llewellyn turned the corner, waiting several moments before checking the street was empty. “I don’t think we’ve been followed.”

Jack nodded and whispered, “This way.”

As they approached the large house, Jack could make out a few people beyond the curtained windows. The gathering was much smaller than Owen’s parties, but then again no one in their circle had quite the freedom and pocketbook that Owen had been privileged with.

“There’s someone on the upper floor.” Llewellyn pointed out a faint movement in a top window.

“Oh yeah, there are two bedrooms open for the guests to use. It’s nice, especially for those of us with nosy neighbours.” Jack was somewhat curious who was up there, so early in the evening.

“Ah, I see.”

Jack squeezed his partner’s arm reassuringly. “That’s not to say that we need to use it. Whatever makes you comfortable.”

Llewellyn cleared his throat. “I think I’d prefer, ah, just the downstairs. Tonight.”

“Alright, good.” Jack climbed the front steps and went to knock on the door.

“Wait, I don’t—” Llewellyn stopped on the bottom step of the walkway. He was hugging his arms tight against his chest, for reasons beyond the crisp Fall evening.

“What is it?” Jack took two steps down, so he was standing just above his partner. The lanterns along the walkway had been purposefully left unlit, so the guests could approach unobtrusively. Jack could barely make out Llewellyn’s features.

“Are you… quite positive that it’s alright for me to accompany you?”

“Are you asking me if it’s safe? Because you know I would trust all of the—”

“Not that.” Llewellyn looked off to the side, idly picking a leaf off a climbing ivy. “I mean, I don’t want to intrude. With your friends.”

“Llewellyn,” Jack sighed as his hands wrapped around his lover’s neck. “Even if I wasn’t with you, you’re not an outsider here. This is your community as much as mine. In fact, I’m sure some of them will prefer your company—notably where discussing poetry is concerned.”

Llewellyn looked like he wanted to say something else, but instead he reached up to tug Jack into a deep kiss, his lips warm and insistent. Jack twisted his fingers up in the curls at the base of his neck, craving all the intimate touches they could get away with in the moment.

Out of breath and flushed, Jack pulled back from the kiss. He took a moment to smooth out Llewellyn’s rumpled jacket and adjust his tie. “Shall we?”

They knocked at the door with three short taps and two long ones. With a flourish, Aldous Germaine flung open the door and ushered them inside.

“Delightful! Oh the night has finally arrived! We’ve all been _positively_ _hounding_ Jack to share you with the rest of us, Detective.” Aldous winked.

Jack laughed and rested his hand on his partner’s lower back. Jack may be used to the way that Aldous flirted with everyone, but Llewellyn was not. “Are we the last to arrive?”

“Well you’d think you would be, but we seem to have already lost a pair.” Aldous eyed the staircase behind them suggestively. “But I suppose we are entering Scorpio season, so of course it’ll be one of _those_ soirees.”

Llewellyn fumbled with his jacket pockets, pulling out a bottle and a book. (A slip of paper also fell out, but that was unintentional.) “I brought wine. And a few selections for the evening—though I must warn you I favour les poètes maudits.”

“Detective Watts! Why, you’ve been holding out on me!” Aldous exclaimed dramatically.

Llewellyn turned the bottle of wine over in his hands. “I beg your pardon?”

“I had no idea you were such a committed lover of poetry!” Aldous leaned his head in conspiratorially, his hand flitting about Llewellyn’s collar. “Now I absolutely must hear your passionate, _penetrating_ view of the Modernists.”

Before Aldous scared him off, Jack stepped in. “Come on, give us a moment to settle in.”

“Oh, that I am a patient man!” Aldous took the bottle of wine and sauntered off down the hall. “Jackets in the closet, please!”

As Llewellyn was hanging up their coats, Glenn Scott came down the stairs in a hurry, his blazer draped over his arm.

“Having a lucky night, Glenn?” Jack called out.

“No complaints.” Glenn grinned and shook Jack’s hand warmly. “You just get in?”

“Yeah, we got the Aldous welcome.” Jack motioned towards the closet.

“Oh.” Glenn nodded as Llewellyn re-appeared. “Detective Watts.”

“Detective Scott.”

“No need for the title anymore. As you know.” Glenn corrected, stony-faced.

Glenn could be a bit intense at times, but Jack knew he was deeply empathetic for Llewellyn’s situation.

“Right.” Llewellyn chewed at his bottom lip. “I regret how things turned out with my inspector.”

“Now, it seems you’re in the same position.” Glenn offered a wry smile, “Although I’m still shocked that Jack had you pegged from the beginning. Then again, I suppose he had his own reasons for studying you so closely.”

“Ugh, Glenn, why.”

“From the beginning? You mean—”

“In lock-up, yessir. I had no way to escape while Jack rambled on and on about you.”

“That was _in confidence,_ Glenn.”

“There’s no confidence between condemned men, Jack.”

\---

“It seems you’re something of a wallflower, Detective.”

Llewellyn Watts had been called that, and much worse, over the years. To be fair, he was standing in the corner of a hallway, set apart from the evening’s revellers, with nothing but a glass of wine and his sad thoughts.

Llewellyn cleared his throat and recited:

“I lounge in the doorway and languish in vain,  
While Tom, Dick and Harry are dancing with Jane.”

“Oh, jolly good! I see what you did there! ‘The Wall Flower,’ is it not?” Mr. Germaine gesticulated with his walking stick, full of energy.

Blinking in surprise, Llewellyn nodded. “You’re familiar with Miss Levy’s work?”

In lieu of a response, Mr. Germaine placed a hand over his heart and continued quoting from the poem:

“Somewhere, I think, some other where, not here,  
In other ages, on another sphere,  
I danced with you, and you with me, my dear.”

“So melancholic.” Llewellyn sighed appreciatively, swirling his wine glass. “Miss Levy knew of that which she wrote. Love at a distance, as an outsider looking in. Frozen, watching one’s feelings float by like ice on a river.”

Mr. Germaine made a forced laugh. “Oh dear, I seem to be losing my touch. Used to be I could bring men to their knees with any little old sonnet.”

Llewellyn took a sip of his drink, fixing his eyes on the carpet. “I’m afraid I shan’t make very good company tonight, Mr. Germaine. Without Jack to bolster me, I am just as leaden-footed and uninspired as she in ‘The Wall Flower.’”

The evening had started out well enough, but then Jack had disappeared to have a ‘private discussion’ with someone named Marcus. Llewellyn didn’t fault him for leaving; it was unreasonable to expect that Jack chaperone him everywhere. But other than Glenn and Mr. Germaine, all the party guests were strangers to him.

Mr. Germaine deftly hooked his arm with Watts’. “Nonsense, Detective! What you need is a moonlit stroll with a handsome companion.”

Llewellyn realized he felt somewhat sweaty and muddled. A walk would probably help. “I do agree that fresh air clears the head…”

“Marvelous!”

Mr. Germaine guided him down the hallway. As the clamor of voices died down, Llewellyn noticed that the pressure at the base of his neck lessened.

They stepped out onto a wide terrace overlooking the back garden. The night breeze was somewhat softened by the thick cedar hedges, but the sky was overcast so no moon shone down.

“That’s better, isn’t it?” Mr. Germaine plucked the half empty wine glass from Watts’ hand, leaving it on a patio table. “Come, let’s ambulate through the roses. I sense a tender heart under all that intellect, Detective. You’re an Aquarius, aren’t you?”

“Yes, but how did you know?”

“Ah the green suit gave it away!” Patting his arm, Mr. Germaine added, “I must say you have impeccable taste in all things—best exemplified in your choice of _friends_.”

“Jack is…” Llewellyn tried and tried to put his thoughts into words, but he shrank it down to a mere, “Wonderful.”

“Well, I meant Constable Crabtree, but yes I suppose Jack too.” Mr. Germaine made another small touch to Llewellyn’s sternum. Llewellyn was acclimatizing to the tactile experience of being around the man. “Now, tell me old boy, what has you so down in the dumps?”

Picking a leaf off a passing shrub, Llewellyn focused on tearing the leaf in half down the center. Stubborn triangle bits refused to be split, and the resulting asymmetry was discouraging.

“I’m concerned,” Llewellyn admitted. “Jack’s position is precarious, and I don’t know how to proceed. The future is as bleak and foreboding as the skies overhead.”

“I don’t understand... I thought things were going well?”

“Well, yes, for now. However, the situation is not entirely … stable.” Llewellyn puffed up his cheeks. “If Jack and I are found out, our careers would be finished. Were that the case, I have no idea how I’d support him, let alone a child. I have no family or financial savings. The uncertainty is… troubling.”

“Sounds to me as if you have a great deal weighing on you.” Deliberately slow, Mr. Germaine wrapped his fingers around Llewellyn’s hand and gave a gentle squeeze. Llewellyn caught a glimpse of somber retrospection in the creases of his eyes, suddenly much older and sadder in the late night.

“I can’t say that I understand perfectly…” Mr. Germaine said. “But I can remind you that you are not in this alone. There’s Jack, of course, but there’s also an entire flock of friends just waiting to catch you. Should you allow us.”

Llewellyn was struck speechless for a moment. He hadn’t considered that this could be a shared burden.

“… Thank you.”

\---

“Hey sorry to interrupt, fellas. Marcus, Rick was asking after you.”

“Oh, right, damn look at the time. You got what you need Jack? You know how to reach me.”

“Yeah, thanks so much for being so, uh, patient with me.”

Marcus hugged Jack briefly and left to go back downstairs. Jack folded up the page of notes he had made and stuck them in his back pocket.

Glenn was still staring at him from the hall. He flicked his eyes over to the bed, and back to Jack.

“So, lucky night?”

Jack rolled his eyes, “We weren’t fooling around.”

“Hey, no judgement. Certainly not from me.” Glenn shrugged, leaning casually against the door frame.

“It wasn’t… I just wanted to talk. And turns out I had a lot of questions.” Before Glenn could grill him further, Jack clarified. “About the clubs he, uh, frequents.”

“So your Detective’s into that kind of thing? Guess he would look pretty in a dress—”

“That’s not—” Jack rubbed his face roughly, very flustered, and definitely not imagining Llewellyn all dolled up. “I thought he might be able to help me understand. And he gave me some good advice.”

Glenn laughed, “Well I don’t get it. But one thing I do know is that if you don’t act fast, Aldous is gonna snatch your prize right out from under you.”

“Llewellyn’s not my prize.” Jack objected, although he was suddenly anxious to check in with him. He had been gone a long time.

“Yeah, one more poetic reading and he’ll be Germaine’s new pet. Or someone else’s. And here I thought _I_ was well-traveled…” Glenn grinned so that Jack could tell it was more a joke at his own expense than Llewellyn’s.

Drawing in closer to Glenn, Jack softened his tone. “Hey, about earlier, I wanted to thank you for being so … magnanimous when I brought him tonight.”

Glenn’s face tightened for a moment, and Jack was worried he had misread his true feelings, but then Glenn waved it off. “It’s not his fault I got fired. I’m not _that_ much of an ass. Besides you seem disgustingly happy, and that’s marginally preferable to your post-Owen moping, so I’m glad for you, I guess.”

Jack slapped his arm playfully. “That may be the nicest thing you’ve ever told me.”

“Piss off.”

“Hey, maybe we could get together sometime, have a pint, talk about how you’re—”

“I’m not looking for pity, Walker.” Glenn put up his strong man façade again. “Don’t take this the wrong way.”

“Not at all.”

“But thanks, I suppose.”

Jack grinned. “Now what’s this about everyone swooning over Llewellyn?”

“Ugh, him. I honestly can’t tell if he’s putting on airs or if he’s just genuinely brilliant.”

“He’s brilliant.” Jack answered without a moment’s hesitation.

“He said he was going to share something humorous, and then proceeded to just read a poem about existential dread.”

“You know, I had to talk him out of bringing his ancient Greek poetry collection.”

“Hell, how many languages _can_ he speak?”

\---

“I have a poem for you.”

Llewellyn had marked the page long ago, after an evening spent pretending to read whilst actually observing Jack on his whittling chair. They were relaxing after supper, and Luc had insisted on doing all the dishes himself, so Llewellyn could stare at Jack as much as it pleased him. The soft flickering of the fire, the delicate curls of wood falling to the floor, Jack’s hands moving fluidly, the way his eyes swept up to meet Llewellyn’s.

It pleased him so.

“Mmm, more poetry?” Jack tugged at Llewellyn’s coat. “I thought we were out here to admire the roses!”

They were on their way out the door when Mr. Germaine had suggested it. “Just a quick stroll in the garden, I hear it’s excellent for the mind … _among other things_.” He had winked at Watts then, as if they were sharing a secret, although Llewellyn was not certain what it was.

“The roses are long since cocooned in their rosehips.” Llewellyn plucked a small, scarlet rosehip from a bush and inspected it for any insect holes. Then he put it in his mouth, acrid tartness and frosty pulp greeting him.

“I don’t think that’s what Aldous meant by enjoying ourselves.”

“It made me think of you.” Llewellyn brushed his arm against Jack’s. The touch felt too public, too exposed although there was no one else to watch them. “The poem, I mean. I thought I could…” Watts scratched the side of his face and said—too loud, “Read it to you?”

He had recited many poems at the party, but not this one, not with Jack. Mr. Germaine had encouraged him to “harness the communicative potential of the stars”. But Llewellyn was not the confident romantic.

That was all Jack.

“You’re so sweet,” Jack kissed him on the cheek. “Let’s sit down first, love.”

They found a small stone bench on the side of the garden path. Llewellyn took out his book and then realized his error. “It’s too dark. Too much cloud-cover to read.”

“I can fix that.” Jack struck a match and held it over Llewellyn’s book. It was not so long that it would last the entire length of the poem, but Jack could light more.

“Don’t drop it.”

“I shall not drop it.” Jack brought his head in closer, his breath warm against Llewellyn’s face. “Oh, these are in French.”

“Verlaine. I can translate it out loud.”

“Mm, no I suppose I’ll muddle through.” Jack wrapped an arm around Llewellyn’s waist and leaned his head on his shoulder. “I am _thoroughly_ comfortable.”

Llewellyn tipped his chin towards Jack’s lips, thinking that now was the time for the romantic kissing.

“Shit!” Jack winced and flicked the spent match on the ground.

“You dropped it.”

“You distracted—never mind, I have more. Here.” Jack struck another match.

Llewellyn focused on the words on the page, although he hardly needed it to recite. He read aloud:

“Le foyer, la lueur étroite de la lampe ;  
La rêverie avec le doigt contre la tempe  
Et les yeux se perdant parmi les yeux aimés…”

Without forethought, Llewellyn glanced up at Jack, and promptly forgot where he was in the poem. He had to pause for a second and re-calibrate himself.

“L'heure du thé fumant et des livres fermés ;  
La douceur de sentir la fin de la soirée ;  
La fatigue charmante et l'attente adorée ;  
De l'ombre nuptiale et de la douce nuit…”

Llewellyn took a breath and was surprised to find that his eyes were watery. He hurried to finish before he started crying.

“Oh! tout cela, mon rêve attendri le poursuit  
Sans relâche, à travers toutes remises vaines,  
Impatient mes mois, furieux des semaines!”

The match went out shortly before he finished. He turned his chin into the opposite shoulder from Jack and tried to discreetly clean up his face.

Jack waited while he collected himself. His hand was still resting on Llewellyn’s waist, but it had snaked up under his coat, so Llewellyn could feel the heat of it.

“I was not planning this.” Llewellyn sniffled. “I cannot fathom why I’m crying.”

“It’s okay, love.”

Jack brushed the hair out of Llewellyn’s face, gentle again. He took off his partner’s hat and started combing his fingers through his hair, like he did when they were curled up together at night. “You were amazing, thank you. Did you… is there a reason you picked that poem?”

“I thought it was an apt description of how I feel. With you.” Llewellyn cast his eyes down at the words on the page, less pressure than maintaining eye contact. “What I want to hold dear when things are challenging.”

“What do you mean?”

“I…” Llewellyn took a small breath and held it for a moment. “I love you. Very much. You make me feel safe and cared for and I… want to secure a future with you.”

Jack’s soothing brushing motion stopped. “Llewellyn, what are you saying?”

Llewellyn was thinking about all the nights he had lain awake fearful that Jack hadn’t made it home safe. He was thinking of all the possible scenarios in which Luc could end up back on the street, or in jail, or dead—and the many other abandoned children headed for that same fate. He was thinking about Danny and Hubert and his parents.

Llewellyn was thinking that he was finally going to be able to protect someone.

“I think it would be sensible for us to move in together. We can afford a two-bedroom, something with a private entrance so we don’t have to sneak around. And enough space for kids.”

“Kids… plural.”

Llewellyn hunched into himself. “You don’t want that.”

“Love,” Jack cupped the side of Llewellyn’s face. “I want that. Of course, you know I’ve always wanted children, and I’d love to come home to you every day, but there’s a lot of unknowns. If you’re living with me, the risk that you’ll be found out…”

“Some things are worth the risk.”

Jack sighed, “Damn it. You’re making it very difficult to argue against you.”

Llewellyn smirked a little bit. “That is the idea.”

Grabbing the back of his neck, Jack pulled Llewellyn into him, kissing him deeply. Llewellyn melted into the affection, slipping his hands under Jack’s warm coat. He burrowed further under the layers of clothes, finally maneuvering to get his hands directly against Jack’s warm, soft belly.

“Goddamn! Your hands are _cold_.” Jack squirmed against the touch.

Shoving his hands further up Jack’s chest, Llewellyn replied, “So warm me up.”

“Is this what it’s going to be like living with you?”

“So you admit we’re going to be living together.”

“No, I, that’s—how is it even possible that you’re getting your hand up there?!”

\---

George Crabtree liked to consider that his mind was sharp like an owl’s. He was punctual, organized, and he had a superb sense of direction.

Unfortunately, like an owl, some days George struggled with his memory. (Or was that fish? Regardless!)

Today was one of those days.

It was Effie’s birthday, and he had planned a romantic evening for just the two of them. He would sweep her off her feet! He was very excited.

All had been going to plan. He had picked up her specially made gift. He had ordered her favourite kind of cake from their favourite bistro. He had bought the finest tenderloin Mr. Walker had to offer. He had made it halfway to her apartment before he realized he no longer had the bag with Effie's present.

Thankfully, George had given himself plenty of time to spare. It was no problem to double back to the butchery.

The shop’s closed sign was staring back at him, but he could make out a light flickering in the back. He knocked politely on the front door, and then eased it open.

Something felt off. There was an overturned bucket, and the room smelled strongly of cleaning products.

George heard a low murmur from the back room.

“Hello? Mr. Walker?” George leaned forward, silently putting his bag down beside him.

A decidedly not-adult-man-voice called out, “Back here.”

George weaved behind the counter, nearly falling in a puddle on the floor. He opened the door to the back room. An unbelievable sight met him.

“What in blazes happened here?”

There were about a dozen plucked chickens strewn haphazardly over the sawdust-coated floor. Mr. Walker’s young apprentice, Luke, was standing on a chair over the washbasin, rinsing the skin of a chicken carcass.

“I slipped, when I was carrying the rack.” Luke answered. His breathing was laboured, like he had just run up a hill.

“Indeed, I very nearly slipped myself, there’s a great big puddle—”

“It was the cleaning water. I should have mopped it up. _Stupid_.” Luke hopped down off his chair, wrangling the clean chicken onto a brass hook, and disappearing with it into the cold room. He must be soaked; his shoes squelched with every step.

George looked around at all the poultry rolling in the dirt. “Seems like quite a cumbersome load, I imagine it was very heavy—”

“I could have managed.” Luke shot back, wrenching another carcass off the floor by its leg. “I just slipped, idiot.”

George wasn’t sure if the lad had just called him an idiot, but he certainly didn’t seem in a friendly mood. “Where’s Mr. Walker?”

“Oh right, that’s why you’re back.” Luke flopped the chicken into the washbasin to be washed. “You didn’t have to. Mr. Walker’s gonna bring you the bag.”

“The bag—the bag!” George had nearly forgotten the entire reason he had returned to the butchery. Effie’s present! “Where is it?”

“I dunno.” Luke shrugged. “Mr. Walker just said he was gonna bring it to you.”

“Bring it to me—as in, to the station house? Or what?”

“I told you I dunno.” Luke added, “Probably not the station.”

For a moment, Crabtree panicked. Should he try to track down Mr. Walker? He might go to George’s apartment, but that would be quite the detour. George could always give Effie her present another day. Better to focus on making tonight special for her birthday.

George thanked the lad for his help and was about to leave when he remembered he had not arrived empty-handed.

But the bag he had left at the front door was gone. With it, the high-quality steaks and fancy little cake he had purchased for tonight. With it, his dreams of a perfect evening.

“No, no, no.” George pulled at his hair. Everything was falling apart. He ran back into the butchery, checking to make sure he hadn’t placed the bag inside somewhere. No sign of it.

“What’s wrong?” Luke turned from his station at the sink.

“The supper for tonight, it’s gone.” George checked his pocket watch anxiously.

“The steaks you got earlier?” Luke seemed to be struck by a thought. “I—I can fix it.”

“No, no it’s alright.” George waved it off. He still had time. Maybe he could get something ready-made from the hotel restaurant. Not quite the amorous homecooked meal, though.

Luke scrambled down to check a small icebox. “Well we don’t have any tenderloin left. But I can cut you off a couple ribeye; Jack said it was really nice.”

“That would be wonderful. Are you sure?” George gestured around the closed shop. “You seem to have your hands full.”

“No it’s fine, I can do it, it’ll be quick.” Luke took a moment to wash his hands, which George appreciated. “Mr. Walker would want to help you.”

While he waited, George mopped up the spill in the front room. It occurred to him that he might ask Effie’s neighbour if he had any brownies to spare. He could explain to Effie that he had a gift for her, it would just be a little late. She’d understand.

Although the evening was not turning out as he had expected, George was looking forward to making Effie howl with laughter upon hearing the sequence of events.

\---

“You don’t need to walk me home.”

“What? You think _I’m_ walking _you_ home? Allow me to disavow you of that idea.” George lifted the bag in his hand. “You’re here to make sure that I don’t forget these delicious steaks somewhere along the way.”

Luke rolled his eyes.

“Truly!” George insisted. “I don’t know where I would be without your assistance. Probably lost in a sewer somewhere, judging by tonight’s pattern.”

Luke snickered, “Yeah, most likely.”

They were walking down Queen Street, back to Effie and Mr. Walker’s apartment building. In the end, George stayed at the butchery to help Luke clean up—it didn’t take very long with the two of them and it was far too dark outside to let the young lad go home alone.

“What was in the bag? The one you forgot earlier?” Luke asked him.

“A beautiful leather briefcase, made in Italy, if you can believe that!” George gesticulated excitedly. “It’s for my friend, Miss Newsome, so that she can put all of her professional legal notes and, uh, other lawyer papers in there.”

Luke laughed. “Ha! A _lady_ _lawyer_.”

“I don’t see what’s so funny about that.”

“What’s she gonna do, talk the judge’s ear off?” Luke said in a mocking tone.

“Now see here young man,” George chastised him. “Miss Newsome is a very accomplished lawyer, and I don’t at all appreciate your tone.”

Luke walked on, stubbornly refusing to answer or make eye contact.

George sighed and added, “You know, Miss Newsome’s worked very hard to get where she is, I should think harder in fact because she’s a woman. To be honest, she never ceases to impress me.”

His face felt flushed, remembering all the great lengths Effie had gone to in supporting his dreams. “I’d imagine I’d be quite upset if someone treated me unfairly for something I’d had no say in. I’d imagine _you_ wouldn’t much care for it either.”

“Sorry.” Luke mumbled. “I shouldn’t have… sorry.”

“Alright.” George patted the boy’s shoulder awkwardly.

They walked in silence for a moment. Well, not entirely silent—the young lad’s shoes were still making wet slapping noises when they hit the street. George worried that his toes would be frozen solid by the time they got back.

“How are your feet?”

“S’fine. It’s not that cold out.” Luke shrugged.

“Are you sure you don’t want—”

“It was my fault.” Luke interjected sourly. “Stupid. Mr. Walker got me this pair _new_ , from a store! And I ruined them.”

“I’m sure they’ll dry out.” George waited for a moment, then decided to impart some wisdom on the lad. “When I was a boy, my Aunt Peony had this pristine set of teacups, only for special occasions, shipped from London. But one day I knocked a cup over, roughhousing you know. Shattered, irreplaceable! Do you know what she told me—once I finally worked up the courage to tell her?”

Luke looked back at him, wide-eyed. “What?”

George smirked wickedly. “She said she’d stolen the set from the hotel she used to work at.”

After a good laugh at his own story, George added, “And she taught me that even if some things were replaceable, _people_ are not. Now that’s a lesson worth remembering!”

“That story wasn’t in your book.” Luke said with a frown.

“You’ve read my book?!”

“No!” Luke shook his head roughly. “I mean, I, maybe, heard a bit. Just in passing. I can’t control what Mr. Walker is reading, okay.”

In his mind’s eye, George could just picture it: Detective Watts, Luke, and Mr. Walker sitting together in the late evening, spellbound as Mr. Walker regaled them with excerpts from his book!

Without thinking it through, George remarked, “Oh, ho, that’s fantastic! I had my suspicions about who Watts gave it to.”

“You know what they are? Mr. Walker and Mr. Watts?”

George frowned, uncomfortable discussing this subject out in public. “I—I know they are kind, generous people. With excellent taste in literature, might I add.”

Stopping dead in his tracks, Luke stared at Crabtree. “But they’re perverted.”

George sucked in a breath and lowered his voice. “Lad, this isn’t the place.”

“You accept it, then?” Luke pressed on, determined.

Running a hand through his hair, George quietly answered. “If it makes them happy, then yes, of course. Why shouldn’t I? Do you have a problem with it?”

“I don’t have a problem with it.” Luke hurried to explain. “But they don’t know I know.”

“I find that hard to believe.”

“Promise you won’t tell them. Look, you owe me for the steaks.”

George pinched the bridge of his nose. His brain was at capacity in terms of convoluted interpersonal secrets. This was getting ridiculous. “I won’t mention it. But you really ought to—I’d wager they’d prefer if you were honest with them.”

Luke kept walking. George sighed and fell in step beside him.

“I’ll think about it.” Luke muttered.

George couldn't help but ask.

“…So what do you think of my book?”

\---

“I need to talk to you.”

Luc crossed his arms behind his back, stiff and nervous.

They were having lunch in a secluded part of Allen Gardens. It was an unusually warm day, warm enough to take off their coats and sit on the grass. Mr. Walker had brought sandwiches, and Mr. Watts had brought some sort of beignet.

“Do you want—should I go?” Mr. Watts glanced quickly between Mr. Walker and Luc, twisting his spine in a way that couldn’t possibly be comfortable.

Luc shrugged. “I just wanted to say, uh, thanks, for letting me stay with you the last few weeks.”

Mr. Walker smiled up at him and seemed about to say something, but Luc rushed to continue.

“I found a room, it’s near the shop, so it’s—I’ll be a in a respectable neighbourhood. Won’t get mixed up in anymore—in anything bad. And I’ll still be on time every day, j’te le jure.”

“You—you want to move out?” Mr. Walker seemed shocked by the news, looking to Mr. Watts for yet another secret unspoken thing between them.

Luc frowned—obviously _want_ had nothing to do with it. This whole time, Mr. Walker had been more than decent to him, and Luc had nothing to offer in return. The least he could do was get out of his hair.

“It's better this way, less ...” Luc searched for a word that wasn’t insulting. “Bothersome."

“Oh.” Mr. Walker rubbed the back of his neck. “Is this because of—what we discussed last week?”

Feeling his face go red, Luc groaned and threw his hands down to his sides. “That’s not—I’m obviously not—merde!”

Why did everyone seem to think he had a problem with the two men together? Last week, Mr. Walker had talked to him openly about the nature of his relationship with Mr. Watts. He had explained secrecy and safety. He had gone out of his way to make Luc feel comfortable, even going so far as to ask him if it was alright if Mr. Watts stayed overnight on occasion. As if Luc should have any say what Mr. Walker did in his own home!

Instead of making him feel more at ease, as Mr. Crabtree had suggested, the conversation had only made Luc feel more on edge.

"I'm not gonna tell anyone your secret!" Luc blurted out.

"I know, but that isn't my primary concern here." Mr. Walker exchanged a look with Mr. Watts. "Luc, I think we should talk about your future—"

Luc raised his voice, “I’m sorry okay, but I’m _trying_ to fix it, if you’d just stop!”

 _Effrontée_. Luc heard in his head and shut his mouth. He clenched his fists at his sides and stared at his feet, focusing on holding back his anger.

Luc was lying about his past, about who he was. The longer he lived with Jack, the harder it would be to hide, the more painful it would be when they finally learned the truth.

“Luc? Hey, I’m not mad. Just breathe, okay?”

When he felt Mr. Walker’s hand on his back, Luc shook him off and forced himself to respond. “I know you’re not mad, you’re never—you’d probably never kick me out, if I didn’t leave. But I can’t _do anything_ for you, and you gave me a job and a place to sleep and sandwiches and new shoes and—it’s not fair!”

Luc wrenched his shoes off one by one and threw them as hard as he could into the bushes. He sat down on his heels and crammed his eyes against his knees.

He knew he was acting like a little baby, but he couldn’t stop the whirlwind of feelings. He just wanted to make Jack _understand_.

Sounding as calm as ever, Mr. Walker spoke. “Luc, I’m sorry, I don’t honestly know… what the right thing to say is. Maybe you think that I don’t… just because I don’t get mad and yell, it doesn’t mean I don’t _feel_ things, because of course I do and... I really want to help you.”

Talking into his legs, Luc groaned. “You don’t understand, I’m not—who you think.”

“I don’t believe you’re giving me enough credit. I'm a very good judge of character, and I know plenty already about you.” Mr. Walker sounded confident. “But if there’s something… I mean, I hope you know that you can tell me, if you want to.”

Hearing a footstep nearby, Luc looked up as Mr. Watts was placing his shoes next to him. He had gone into the bushes to fetch them, while Luc was being rude and stupid. There was a bit of a stick caught in Mr. Watts' hair; perhaps he hadn't noticed.

Some part of Luc eased, relaxed into the telling.

“My name isn’t Luc, or Joseph-Lucien. I changed it when I moved here. Because no one knew me. No one could tell it wasn’t...” His chest seized up, and he couldn’t say anything else.

“I think it’s a lovely name. Lucien. The light.” Mr. Watts was crouching, nearby, but far enough away that Luc could still breathe. “And Joseph, for your little brother, a sort of… living, breathing memento.”

“Luc.” Mr. Walker crouched next to Mr. Watts—both of them were looking at him. “Whatever name you want, whatever you want to wear, or not wear, whether you want to stay on at the shop or not. That is all your decision. But, I should say, _I_ want you to keep living with me. Long-term, um, as long as it suits you.”

“If you need to rationalize it,” Mr. Watts added, picking at a blade of grass. “You could tell yourself that you are indeed providing Jack with something of value. You’d be giving him the peace of mind of not having to fret over you.”

Neither of them seemed disturbed or upset about his revelation. Luc didn’t even need to explain himself, to justify why he was the way he was. They were too calm about this. "How long have you known?"

"Well, over the past few months, I've had some, ah, indications. How you held yourself, how jumpy you got at certain words." Mr. Walker glanced over at Mr. Watts. "But Llewellyn confirmed it for me when you moved in."

Mr. Watts scratched the side of his face. "You use feminine conjugation in French."

"Oh. Right." He still slipped up at times.

"I know this a lot to process." Mr. Walker said, giving him a reassuring smile. "You needn't answer me right away, and—"

"I want to stay." Luc interrupted. He had been handed everything he could ever have asked for—the stability of a respectable job, the warmth of Jack’s home, the protection of good people. He would have to be a complete idiot to turn that down. "I mean, with you. If that's okay."

“Oh good!" Jack beamed. "Now please, for heavens' sake, put your shoes back on before you get frostbite.”

“Shall we break out the doughnuts?”

“Really, Llewellyn?”

“Is this not reason for celebration?”

“Everything is reason enough for doughnuts in your eyes.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> English Interpretation of Paul Verlaine’s Poem “Le foyer, la lueur étroite de la lampe”*  
> *It’s not a direct translation, so some words are different to fit the rhyming scheme, and I don’t find it quite captures the spirit of the original, but it’s decent*
> 
> Home, the lamp’s circumscribed glow:  
> Dreaming there with fingers on brow  
> And looks wandering among loved looks;  
> The hour of infusions of tea, and closed books;  
> The sweetness at feeling the evening’s conclusion;  
> The charming fatigue and adored expectation  
> Of nuptial shadows and of the soft night,  
> Oh, all that, my fond dream pursues in flight  
> Relentlessly, beyond all vain remissions,  
> Raging at weeks, impatient with seasons!


	5. Betrayals

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Excerpt:  
> Llewellyn: wow I'm in such a good place in my life, gonna move in with my wonderful butcher, adopt some kids, make new friends at work, what could go wrong?  
> Universe: hold my beer

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter coincides with the episode The Future Is Unwritten.

Something about the day felt wrong.

Joseph-Lucien felt it as soon as he woke up. There were no sounds of running water or haphazard shuffling from Jack’s bedroom. There were none of the usual morning routines of hot breakfast being cooked up and “I’ll go shake Llewellyn one more time.”

The apartment was empty, save for Luc himself.

Jack did on occasion stay out late and sleep over at Mr. Watts’. The strange thing was that he had not mentioned it yesterday. Stranger still, that Luc arrived at the butchery before Jack. Strangest, that even by midday Jack was nowhere to be seen.

Luc was working up the courage to go see Watts at work when he walked in the door.

“Mr. Watts!” Luc shouted in relief.

There were a few customers being served, so Luc signaled to Watts to follow him into the back room while Miss Turner dealt with the customers.

“Bout time you showed up! I was starting to think something had happened.” Luc closed the door behind them. “Where is he?”

Before he answered, Watts turned away from Luc to face the wall. “The apartment isn’t safe anymore. Detective Edwards made a point to call the building superintendent. Jack wants you to stay with his friend for now—he’ll provide for you.”

Luc asked again, louder, “Where’s Jack?”

“He’s locked up in the cells of station one.” Mr. Watts was scraping his fingers against the brick wall. His voice felt disconnected from reality. “Edwards knew exactly where to find him last night, he must have been following us, and I didn’t even realize.”

“But you can get him out, right? Like last time?”

Watts shook his head. “No. This is different. I don’t—Jack said not to—”

Without thinking, Luc ran to push Mr. Watts around. “Franchement, _tournez-vous_! Look at me, you have to get him out! You’re a damn copper, alright? You need to—”

Crumpling to the floor, Watts pressed the palms of his hands against his eyes.

“I can’t.”

Luc had never seen Mr. Watts cry before.

Just a week ago, Jack had pointed out in the paper that there was a two-bedroom apartment for rent near the butchery. Watts had smiled brighter than Luc had ever seen, overwhelmingly joyful and triumphant. They had debated back and forth whether they should get a sofa or just armchairs in the salon. There had been a funny moment when the three of them had all crammed onto Jack’s small sofa, to prove some nonsensical point, but it quickly devolved into laughing and roughhousing, and Luc had felt true joy.

If Luc was sure of one thing, it was that Watts would do anything for Jack. If even he couldn’t fix this, then…

“This is all your fault!”

Luc ran out the door before Watts could react. He ran hard, until his lungs wouldn’t allow him to, and then he staggered on, unsteady and blurry.

At Jack’s home, the door wouldn’t yield to his key. There was a notice posted on the door. Luc couldn’t read it, but he had enough know-how to recognize an eviction.

Sneaking onto the fire escape, Luc made his way up to their window. Jack always left it unlocked.

Once inside, Luc was overwhelmed. The space that Jack had made so warm and homey felt faraway in his absence.

First things first. Luc had to take what he needed, including whatever money he could scrounge up. There weren’t many valuables left lying around the apartment—surely Jack knew better, living with the likes of him. But Luc dug up the small change hidden under the sink, enough to last him a while on his own.

He changed into his older, loose clothes, leaving the nice work clothes folded on Jack’s bed. He hesitated to put the nœud de papillon on top, ending up tucking it in his coat pocket. A memento.

Walking around the room, Luc touched the books, the photographs, the dining table, the hearth. These past few months had been too good to be true. Jack and Mr. Watts, the butchery, this apartment, even that silly constable—all of it was a dream, a taste of comfort. Comme les yeux entrouverts de sa mère, assise sur la rive en printemps avec le vent frais qui lui coupait le souffle.

Unattainable.

From the mantlepiece, Luc picked up the wooden mallard that Jack had carved for him. Jack had pressed it into his hands with the promise of another soon to come, “to complete the set.” A private joke between them.

Replacing the duck thoughtfully, Luc knew there was no way he could run. Not before he exacted his revenge on the one who had taken it all away from him.

\---

Acquiring the poison was simple enough. There was nothing remarkable about a poor kid buying rat poison for his most-likely-rat-infested home.

Covering his entry was slightly more complex. He placed a large order of doughnuts and followed at a distance, so that he could slip in behind the delivery boy while the constable at the front desk was distracted. There were three detective offices, and only one unmarked one. Luc ducked inside before anyone spotted him.

The office was unassuming; a bare desk took up much of the room, with a standing coat rack in one corner.

Searching the desk, Luc found a picture of Jack, clipped inside what was surely a criminal file. His heart thudded painfully in his chest. He kept looking, determined to get something he could use to poison the bastard.

At the back of a drawer, there was an open bottle of liquor.

He hesitated. He had no experience with murder. All he knew he had pieced together from stories Mr. Watts had recounted; the poisoned cocoa tin, the little girl and the hot dog. Was there a specific amount he should use? What if Edwards didn’t drink the bottle all at once?

Footsteps down the hall sent him scurrying for an escape route, but there was no time to leave. Luc squeezed behind the coat rack, praying that the footsteps would pass by.

A tall, sallow-faced man walked into the office. Luc willed the coats to swallow him up. He had no way to justify being in this office, let alone with a box of rat poison in hand.

Before he could take off his coat, Detective Edwards was interrupted by the arrival of another copper.

The constable stood in the doorway. “Sir, that molly we brought in—he’s been released.”

“What! On whose authority?”

“The boys say it came from the Inspector at station house four.”

“We’ll just see about that.”

Sneering like the hateful brute that he was, Detective Edwards stomped out of his office, slamming the door behind him.

“Jack…” Luc breathed out. His immediate impulse was to find him, to make sure he was alright.

But should he use this golden opportunity to execute his plan? Luc had an uninterrupted stretch of time in the office. Even if Jack was safe for now, Detective Edwards remained a real danger to him. A box of poison in his bottle would solve that problem.

If Watts could do anything for Jack, why shouldn’t Luc?

\---

“I really don’t think it’s so serious, I’m sorry you came all this way just for this—”

“Nonsense, George, it’s broken!” Effie railed.

“Well, yes, but you see it’s been broken for several days,” George protested, earning another glare from his sweetheart.

“The nature of the injury is cause enough to worry, let alone that it was left untreated for so long.” Miss Hart nodded towards Effie. “You were right to call me.”

In the four days that George was held hostage, a great many upsetting events had unfolded. Effie had tried to fill him in last night, based on her own experience representing Miss Hart. It was unbelievable that the brilliant coroner had been embroiled in a scheme to cover up murder, and that she had killed an attacker in her own morgue, just _yesterday_.

Today, she was kneeling next to George’s broken foot, applying pressure to ascertain the extent of the damage.

“I really ought to have gone straight to the hospital, but when I got in last night, I just couldn’t resist the temptation of sleep.” George winced as a hot pain radiated up his leg, but it passed quickly.

“Well the good news is that your crazy fan did a decent job cleaning the wound.” Miss Hart opened her medical bag, retrieving bandages. “I don’t believe it’s infected.”

“She wasn’t—I mean, evidently she was in a _state_ when she abducted me, but I truly think she was a kind-hearted person, subjected to a cruel and unfair world.” George tried to explain.

Miss Hart paused as she drew a liquid from a vial. George paled on noticing the needle.

“Is that—” George coughed as his voice cracked. “Are you sticking that in my foot?”

“It should help with the pain. Are you afraid of needles?”

“No, not afraid per say, but I should claim to prefer not to be impaled with a foreign object.” George thought he saw the corner of Miss Hart’s mouth tweak up into a smirk— _wasn’t that a reassuring sight_.

“Don’t worry, constable. I’ll switch the needle so I can impale you with something more manageable.” Miss Hart exchanged the needle on the syringe for a slightly smaller version.

“I really appreciate you coming over on such short notice, Miss Hart.” Effie placed a fresh cup of tea at George’s elbow. George busied himself with the welcome distraction. “I’m aware it’s been a whirlwind in the past few days, and I can imagine you’re in need of a rest just as much as George.”

“Not at all. I’m quite capable to get back to work; there’s much to be done.” Miss Hart sounded overly strained and forced, her posture tense and upright.

“Sometimes work can be a fine distraction. Goodness knows I love the intensity and focus of my work.” Effie nodded. “And I also need the opportunity to take some time to myself. To enjoy the other wonderful parts of my life.”

Feeling Effie’s eyes on him, George grinned bashfully.

Without warning, Miss Hart drove the needle into his foot. George yowled in surprise, but it didn’t sting terribly so.

“I’ll take that into consideration, Miss Newsome.” Miss Hart continued, as if nothing was the matter. “I appreciated your help when I was under investigation.”

“Anytime.” Effie said, adding. “And I do believe you owe me dinner at the lounge.”

George looked up at her in confusion. Effie explained, “My fee. For the legal counsel.”

“I hadn’t considered it a serious offer. I can pay, you know.” Miss Hart wrapped George’s foot in thick bandages. The medication she had given him was already taking effect, dampening the twinges of pain. “I doubt it would help your career to be seen dining with a disgraced public official.”

“Oh I’m certainly not inviting the Mayor to come dine with us. Then I’d be subjected to his blathering all evening.”

Miss Hart laughed, a small guffaw with her hand at her mouth. George could not remember ever having seen her sincerely amused.

There was a quiet knock at Effie’s door.

“Don’t get up, I’ll see who it is.” Effie patted his arm as she passed.

“Wasn’t planning on it,” George quipped. His foot was so padded in bandages that it had nearly doubled in size. “I am deeply grateful, Miss Hart. My foot feels loads better already, it’s remarkable.”

Miss Hart tied off the dressing neatly. “No problem, constable. It is good to know that I can still be of use, for the time being.”

George cleared his throat, uncertain if it was appropriate. “Miss Hart, I hope I’m not overstepping, but if I may say so, well, after the ordeal of the past few days, if you ever wanted someone to confide in or check in on you, or anything at all—”

George realized how that sounded and rushed to add, “I mean, as a friend, if you’re comfortable, of course. It’s just that I know how it can feel, after a close call, and I—” George thought of Mr. Parker, his life cut short so suddenly. He tactfully avoided bringing his name into things. “Well, I’m relieved that you’re alright.”

Miss Hart appeared surprised at the sentiment, as if she had not considered that someone could be worried after her wellbeing, rather than her usefulness.

She didn’t have a chance to reply, as Effie re-entered the room.

“Seems you have another rabid fan, George.” Effie gestured behind her. “He _refused_ to leave until he saw that you were alive.”

“What do—oh hello there!” George brightened as he recognized Mr. Walker’s boy. “How are you doing, Luke?”

The young lad glanced around, taking in the scene in confusion. “I heard shouting. Thought you might be getting stabbed or something.”

“Good heavens, I should think not! Miss Hart here was tending to my little foot issue. Oh yes, Luke allow me to introduce you,” George gestured to the women in turn. “Miss Hart, city coroner, and Miss Newsome, lawyer.” George gestured back at Luke. “This fine young man is Mr. Walker’s apprentice.”

“Nice to meet you,” Miss Hart nodded politely as she packed up her medicine kit. “I really should be going, but I hope you recover soon, constable.” Miss Hart tapped the edge of the dining table, near George’s hand. “I’m… glad you’re alright.”

As Effie accompanied Miss Hart to the door, George beckoned Luke over to him.

“Why—your foot…”

“It’s a sordid tale.” George exhaled. “Enough of that unpleasantness, how are you?”

“S’okay.” Luke shrank in on himself, staring at his feet. He was wearing an oversized wool sweater, but no shoes. He seemed nervous, like a child being caught out for mischief.

Determined to get the lad talking, George pressed. “And how’s Detective Watts? I didn’t see him at the station yesterday.”

“I don’t know.” Luke mumbled.

George frowned. “Is something—"

“Well, well, young master Luke.” Effie returned, grinning. “I hear you’re the one I should be thanking for an excellent birthday supper.”

Luke pulled a face. “Huh?”

“The steaks! Well I suppose it was a month ago, but they were quite delicious.” Effie stood behind George’s chair, her hand touching his back lightly. “In fact, I was considering going by the butchery today to pick up a few for supper. How late is the shop open until?”

“Uh…I don’t know, might be closed.”

“Oh? Tomorrow perhaps?”

Luke shrugged uncertainly.

Strange enough for the lad to be home so early in the day on a workday, but for him to completely ignore the store’s regular hours? Something peculiar was afoot.

“What’s the matter lad?” George shared a look with Effie. “Should I call Mr. Walker?”

Luke muttered something under his breath, and George asked him to repeat himself.

“I don’t know where he is.”

\---

The sun was in his eyes.

Llewellyn Watts found it mildly irritating. Part of his mind still clung to the blissful abyss of sleep. The sunlight moving over his eyelids disrupted that.

Tucking his chin into the bedspread, Watts noticed the gentle stroking of his hair as it stopped. He made a small whine of protest; Jack chuckled and went back to carding through his hair.

For a moment, Llewellyn could imagine that it was a different morning waking up in Jack’s bed, unhurried in their sweet ministrations and unbothered by the outside world. For a moment, he could almost disregard the unfamiliar scent of the room, the uneven sound of Jack’s breathing, and the tightness around his own heart.

“Good morning, love.” Jack said. “Though I suppose I should say good afternoon.”

“Mmhmm.” Llewellyn hummed, stretching his arms over his head with a loud crack.

Once he had completed the requisite flailing about on the bed, Llewellyn finally opened his eyes. The guest bedroom was flooded with light. It must be afternoon.

“Hmpf. You let me sleep late.”

“Couldn’t bear to wake you. I know you stayed up all night tending to me.” Jack was propped up at the head of the bed, a book lying in his lap. His face looked worse in the light of day; although the lacerations were covered with bandages now, the bruising around his eye had turned a sickening blue-green, and the swollen lip was bright red and peeling.

Carefully, Llewellyn reached up to touch Jack’s brow. It was damp with sweat, but not unnervingly so. “How are you feeling? You’re still a mite warm.”

Jack tried to smile; his lip twitched feebly, and he gave up. “I’m alright. The worst of the fever has passed, I think.”

The fever had broken at quarter past three that morning, after hours of sickness and delirium. Jack had even ripped the bandage off his nose in his confusion, complaining of difficulty breathing. The cut across his nose had reopened, and Llewellyn had had to sternly persuade him to stop scratching at it.

It had been a dismal night.

Shaking his head to clear the images, Llewellyn followed up on Jack’s wellbeing. “Have you eaten?”

“Yeah, Aldous came up while you were sleeping. More liquefied oats and soup.” Jack pulled a face. “At least I kept it down this time.”

“Should I get you a cool compress? Water?” Llewellyn adjusted himself to sit cross-legged facing his partner. “Anything else you need?”

“May I… have a kiss?”

Leaning forward with care so as to avoid putting any weight on him, Llewellyn pressed a soft kiss onto Jack’s forehead. From up close, he could spot the smattering of freckles trailing up towards Jack’s hairline. They were radiant in the light.

Jack sighed, tracing Llewellyn’s lips with his forefinger. “You’re so good to me, love.”

The gesture and tone were sweetly familiar, but here and now, juxtaposed against their harsh reality? It was overwhelmingly awful.

“Jack, I’m sorry. I should have handled Edwards; I should have protected you. I put you in danger, and when it came right down to it, I couldn’t even take care of it on my own efforts.”

“Love,” Jack cupped the side of his face. “This wasn’t your fault. I could never—I know what you’ve done for me. Yesterday, of course, but so many other times.”

“Still. It wasn’t enough.” Llewellyn screwed his eyes shut. He was being unreasonably selfish. Jack was the one grappling with his livelihood, housing, and freedom at stake.

“When I was… in there, when the detective threw me to the wolves and walked away, never mind that just the night before I had shared a drink with the bastard, and that you were trying so hard to advance his damn career—” Jack’s voice was wound tight, gravelly from his injuries. “He still had the gall to tell me that _I_ should be ashamed of what I’d done.”

Llewellyn had trusted Edwards. He had been too focused on the details of the case—and still that was no excuse. “I was a fool.”

“You were kind and generous, as is your way.”

“A kind fool.”

“A kind, honest, handsome fool.” Jack pinched his chin playfully.

Blinking up at his bruised face, Llewellyn leaned in closer to Jack. He had difficulties saying the words sometimes, but they came out easily in this moment. “You were all alone in there, and god I thought I was going to lose you. Jack, I can’t, I couldn’t imagine, the way you have completely transformed my life with your love, with your light... there are no words.”

“I love you.” Jack brushed his hair again, and Llewellyn relaxed into the sensation. “Just to think of you, my strength, through that long night— _oh_ _love_ , what you mean to me.”

Llewellyn allowed the soothing words and touches to wash over him. He had wrestled with his guilt and fear for hours, and just this was enough. Jack being here was enough.

They held each other and spoke in hushed voices. Jack shook as he detailed his arrest, the constable’s boot and the leering faces. It was a struggle for Llewellyn to tamp down his rage—but murdering Edwards wouldn’t undo Jack’s suffering. Instead, he concentrated on listening, on being strong for Jack.

There was a spirited knock at the door, and then a cheerful, “It’s me!”

“Just a moment.” Llewellyn awkwardly tumbled out of bed and opened the door. “Mr. Germaine, good morning. Or well, I suppose it is no longer morning. My apologies.”

“Oh no need for all of that!” Mr. Germaine waved his hand. “This isn’t the Windsor Hotel! You can make yourselves perfectly at home.”

“I…” Llewellyn held back from apologizing and prostrating himself again. Mr. Germaine had made it abundantly clear last night that they were both welcome to stay in his guest bedroom. And Watts could think of no other safe option for Jack’s convalescence. “Thank you.”

Mr. Germaine patted Llewellyn’s cheek in an unexpected, parental way. “Anytime, dear.”

Jack cleared his throat from his sickbed. “We really do appreciate it, Aldous.”

“Of course, but just _wait_ until I fill you in on _the latest_.” Mr. Germaine’s entire face lit up. “I’ve already told the driver to prepare the carriage, and _goodness_ I’ll need to dig out my valises from _somewhere_ , not to mention getting your beau looking more _presentable_.”

Llewellyn felt entirely spun around in the storm of intonations. He squinted at Mr. Germaine.

Jack came to the rescue. “What are you talking about?”

“Well, I’ve just had a most _fascinating_ conversation with George Crabtree!”


	6. Choice

“Honestly, George, I thought we were friends!”

“What is it? What have I done now?”

“Almost a year of courtship, and I am only meeting your charming Miss Newsome _today_? Oh it simply won’t do!”

Llewellyn Watts peeked over his shoulder at their bickering, entertained to note that Mr. Germaine was clutching at his fictitious pearls in anguish.

George Crabtree was propped up at the dining table, a cushion under his foot. Catching on to what Mr. Germaine meant, George pointed at him in victory. “You approve of her, then?”

“Approve?” Mr. Germaine made a small sound of disbelief. “She is glorious, monumental—you a tender-stemmed daisy sprouting at her feet—”

“Now hold on, I’m not that short!” George protested, sitting up straighter in his chair.

But Mr. Germaine was caught up in sanguine inspiration, and he recited one of Ms. Dickinson’s fine poems:

“In lands I never saw—they say  
Immortal Alps look down—  
Whose Bonnets touch the firmament—  
Whose Sandals touch the town.”

Mr. Germaine broke off, grinning jauntily at Crabtree. “Oh, it’s just like her!”

Unable to restrain himself, Llewellyn finished the second stanza:

“Meek at whose everlasting feet  
A Myriad Daisy play—  
Which, Sir, are you and which am I  
Upon an August day?”

Mr. Germaine clapped his hands. “Yes, just so! And what an important question for a couple. Believe me, you do not want to make it to the honeymoon only to realize you have _two_ _Mountains_ in the room.” 

“Oh good Lord!” George gasped, hiding his face behind his hands.

Laughing like this was the exact reaction he had been hoping for, Mr. Germaine added, “I’m only teasing, dear boy. Truly, Miss Newsome is a delight, and I do hope you’ll consider visiting for tea. Once your foot business is all sorted, that is.”

George had gotten kidnapped, and his foot crushed in the process. Despite his injury, he was adamant to be put to use, and so Llewellyn had assigned him easy tasks like wrapping things in newsprint. Llewellyn felt guilty, but he was learning to accept help, so he tried to appear grateful in the circumstances.

The three of them were packing up Jack’s household items, with Luc off in the bedroom gathering his clothes. Miss Newsome was keeping an eye on the superintendent. Llewellyn very much hoped to avoid explaining the situation: “ _Hello_ , _I’m here to collect my lover’s effects after you so unjustly evicted him_ …”

Crouching on his heels in front of the cupboard, Watts scrounged around for essential kitchen wares. “George, have you considered having children?”

George fumbled with his wrapped newspaper package. “I’m not even _married_ yet Watts!”

Watts twisted his spine to look back at him. “That doesn’t preclude thinking.”

“Oh I don’t _recommend_ children.” Mr. Germaine waved his hand dismissively. “Why, I was a horrid, nasty little thing in my rebellious days. My poor sweet mother could hardly keep me in line, even though she’s an absolute saint.”

“Oh well, that’s true, children take up a great deal of attention. And time.” George conceded. “But I think, _I hope_ , I’m rather up to the challenge. With the right partner at my side.”

“You’re a natural with children—like Jack.” Llewellyn hummed thoughtfully. “I believe you’d be quite suited to fatherhood.”

Breaking into a wide smile, George said, “You really think so, sir?”

“Yes, it’s obvious.” Llewellyn thought of Jack and George, their kind voices and easy manners. The contrast with his own abilities was striking. “You possess that warm, personable charm that lends itself to forming friendships and trust.”

Llewellyn had started wrapping up one of Jack’s cooking knives in a dishtowel, when Mr. Germaine balked.

“What are you doing to that poor tea towel?”

“Hmm? It’s to protect the knife.” Llewellyn gestured with the cleaver in hand.

Mr. Germaine took a wide step back. “Good heavens, I should think the _knife_ is not the one in need of protection.”

“Jack is very attached to his kitchen things.” Llewellyn leaned over the wooden chopping block that Jack had built himself. They had to leave it behind, unfortunately.

“Oh, it’s not the only thing he’s attached to.” Mr. Germaine winked at him. George made a small, choked sound from his chair.

Llewellyn wasn’t quite sure what that meant. He observed his reflection in the steel blade and pressed on. “He’d be quite upset with me if his knives got damaged in transit.”

“Hah! You must be joking, old boy.” Mr. Germaine handed George the nice serving platter to be wrapped. “Jack is utterly incapable of begrudging you _anything_.”

Llewellyn considered this statement for a moment. “No I suppose he doesn’t really worry over his possessions. I have had occasion to burn a saucepan of his, and he paid it no mind. Not to mention when I ruined that pair of trousers.”

George made another choked noise.

“Do you need water, George?”

His face was beet red, but he shook his head. “No, uh, I just, um—” George cleared his throat and looked away.

Confused, Llewellyn scratched at the side of his chin with the blunt side of the knife. “Is this too much? Have you over-exerted yourself?”

“Oh, not at all! I’m happy to help, sir. I’m so—”

Luc barged in from the bedroom, dragging a large suitcase behind him.

“Hey can I have another valise, this one’s full and— _calisse_ , qui l’a donné un couteau?!”

Llewellyn froze, caught in the act. “J’étais en train de les ranger…”

Radiating anger, Luc snatched the large knife from him and practically threw it on the dining table towards George.

“Good gracious! Not again.” George cried, with more resignation than real fear.

“ _Ça pas d’allure!_ Pourquoi c’est à moi _de_ _tout_ _faire_ …” Glowering, Luc grabbed an empty suitcase and stomped back into the bedroom, slamming the door behind him.

Mr. Germaine audibly shivered. “ _Children_.”

George laughed, looking over at Watts. “To be fair, you were quite close to slicing a finger off.”

“I suppose.” Llewellyn picked at a stray piece of lint on the table and frowned at it as he withdrew into his thoughts.

Llewellyn did not have an excellent memory of his childhood. He remembered often feeling set apart from other children, even his sister. He would spend hours hidden in his books, wishing desperately that he could be as brave and likeable as those happy characters, only to be reminded again and again that he was not. His voice was annoying, his mannerisms perturbing, his presence unwelcome.

His youth had been filled with disappointment, loss, and a pervasive sense of being on the outside. As Mrs. Marks would say, Llewellyn wasn’t ‘built for the real world.’ Which he took to mean that he wasn’t built for any world.

God, he wasn’t even allowed to use a _kitchen knife_.

“What if I am not capable of this?” Llewellyn asked.

“Oh, it’s no problem, I can pack up the rest of the knives.” George answered helpfully.

“Not that. Taking care of a child. What if I am not cut out for being a parent?”

“Pshaw!”

Llewellyn startled a bit at the outburst.

George was red in the face—some sort of surprised or angry, perhaps. “Sorry, sir, I—I’ve started rather liking the expression.”

“Oh how marvellous my dear boy!” Mr. Germaine clapped George on the shoulder. “Couldn’t have said it better myself!”

Mr. Germaine turned his sharp gaze to Watts. “Even in the wise man himself there is more folly than wisdom… You, and Jack, are doing everything you can for the child. You care about him, you’re keeping him safe, you’re offering him a future.”

Llewellyn rolled his shoulders. “I’m afraid it’s not enough.”

“It isn’t nothing.” George said, his face flushed but his eyes sincere, understanding.

Mr. Germaine nodded in agreement. “You’re doing _fine_.”

Hearing the words, Llewellyn realized that even if he still had a lot to learn about family, at least he had excellent role models to study.

\---

“Ready to go?”

Watts tried not to push Luc out the door. This was a difficult moment. But he was acutely aware that they had already pushed their luck being in the apartment without the superintendent’s permission. No need to delay and invite further calamity.

“I should have killed him when I had the chance.”

“What?” Llewellyn had been fiddling with his jacket. He must have misheard.

“I should have killed him. The copper.”

“Edwards.” Llewellyn grasped the young man by the shoulder. “Luc, what have you done?”

“I was right there.” Luc was frowning and gritting his teeth. “I had the perfect chance to get rid of him. I was a coward.”

“Oh god.” Llewellyn crouched down, his mind swimming in a confused frenzy. He tightened his grip on Luc, more to steady himself than anything. “Where were you? Did he see you? This is very important, you must tell me.”

Luc stared at his shoes and muttered, “I went to his office yesterday. He didn’t see me, I don’t think. I was gonna put some rat poison in his drink—"

“Oh god!” Llewellyn pressed his palm to his mouth. This was Hubert all over again.

“I didn’t go through with it.” Luc glared at him. “The bastard deserved it—”

“No. No.” Llewellyn shook his head adamantly. “It is not up to you to enact deadly justice. No matter how much he has hurt us, hurt _Jack_ —"

“Why not?!” Luc challenged. “Why, just because he’s a detective, he gets to do whatever the hell he pleases? He tries to destroy Jack, and he gets to just walk away free and clear! How is that fair? What if he tries it again, and Jack—”

Luc keened a high, wounded sound. As he wept, his breathing became more erratic, sucked in choppy gasps through clenched teeth.

Jack normally dealt with these respiratory fits. But in his absence, Llewellyn tried his best to replicate his calming methods. They really should bring the young lad to a doctor—perhaps Dr. Ogden would agree to a discreet visit.

“It’s going to be alright. Breathe now. With me, lad.”

As Watts demonstrated slow, deep breaths, Luc relaxed from his fit. Moreover, Llewellyn felt the gradual unwinding of the tightness in his chest—he was scared. He had failed to fix these things in the past. He had failed to protect Hubert in the past.

But this was different. Llewellyn wasn’t alone in carrying these burdens anymore.

Llewellyn reached out to dab at some snot with his handkerchief. “You no longer need to deal with problems on your own. That is what Jack and I are here for. Even when the situation seems dire, as it did—” Llewellyn gestured to the partially cleared out apartment, the suitcases packed in Mr. Germaine’s carriage. “See how things can be righted, with a little ingenuity and some very good friends?”

Luc scrubbed at his face with the back of his fist. “But, we have to move…”

“Yes, but we shall persevere.” Llewellyn patted the young man on the shoulder. “Speaking of which, we really should be leaving; the carriage is waiting. We’ll discuss this later, hmm?”

Still sniffling, Luc nodded and followed behind Watts.

They nearly ran into Crabtree in the hall, who was leaning against the doorframe on watch.

“Oh my!” George readjusted himself on his crutches. “Sir, we really do need to stop meeting like this.”

Llewellyn smiled at his friend. “Thank you, George. For everything.”

“Of course. Anytime.” George turned to grin at Luc. “Take care now scamp. Keep this one out of trouble—no more knife business.”

Luc tackled George in a hug, sudden and enthusiastic and then over. “Keep _yourself_ out of trouble, no more book tours for you.”

The trio said their farewells, and Watts and Luc headed downstairs, carrying Jack’s favourite painting between them.

“Good riddance.” Luc huffed. “That old apartment stank like porcupine pee.”

“It did have a _smell_.” Llewellyn said. “I will find us a much finer apartment.”

\---

“This is unbelievable!”

“Hear me out, alright? For the time being, this is probably the only safe place for us. You’ve been a very generous friend, and I appreciate that, but you’re taking on a real risk here. but I don’t want to take advantage—"

“I don’t want your _money_ , Jack.”

Jack Walker drummed his fingers on his chair’s armrest. He was sitting next to Aldous in the man’s study, trying to persuade him to accept rent money, to no avail. He tried a different tact.

Sighing, he pressed against his bruised temple as though it pained him (it did, but that was beside the point). “I know, it’s awkward for me as well, but I just wouldn’t feel right staying here rent-free. Perhaps it’s for the best. I’ll make some calls tomorrow, and we’ll be out of your hair.”

Jack was bluffing of course. But he guessed that Aldous would yield out of concern for him. He even rubbed at his temple again for good measure.

“You’re positively insufferable, Jack Walker.” Aldous scowled. “Stop milking your injuries, you look like a shameless flim-flam man.”

Jack laughed, his sore ribs protesting at the movement. The pain in his head thrummed sympathetically, and he had to momentarily close his eyes as the room swam in front of him.

“Oh dear.” He heard Aldous get up and fetch something.

Once the spell had subsided, Jack took note that Aldous was preparing his pipe. “It feels as if a bull is sitting on my head.”

“Well that can’t be right—your handsome detective is so petite.” Aldous’ usual humour fell flat, worry etching his features. He offered Jack his pipe. “Here darling. I can assure you it’s of the utmost quality.”

Willing to try anything to dull the pain, Jack accepted the pipe. “This will last more than a few days. Until things have calmed down with Edwards. And until I can salvage my business. If I can.”

“Yes. It’s all quite a mess. At the very least, you have a place here for all three of you. For as long as you can withstand the company.” Aldous’ eyes were soft.

Jack had known, on some level, that Aldous had experienced loss—he had not moved to Canada by choice. It was hard to keep in mind when Aldous was always so giving and full of life. Clearly, the big, well-maintained house, despite all its trinkets, was an empty one.

Jack gripped Aldous’ hand. “I couldn’t ask for a truer friend. Thank you.”

“Now let’s get it out of the way. How much for the month?” Jack smirked.

Easily ruffled, Aldous slapped the flat of his hand against the table. “ _Incorrigible_! You cad! It must be a family trait.”

“How’s that?”

“Your partner already paid me, much to my consternation. Stubbornly self-reliant, the lot of you! The boy wouldn’t even let me give him sweets before supper. Imagine! How am I meant to spoil my nephew under these conditions?”

“I thought you hated children.”

“I don’t _hate_ them, I just find them unpleasant and difficult to understand.”

“Also how are you an uncle? Don’t you mean a grandfather?”

“ _Jack Walker you bite your tongue_!”

\---

When Jack returned to their room, he found Llewellyn precariously perched on top of a chair, hanging his winter landscape painting on the wall. He would tilt the painting one way and the other, humming to himself.

Aldous had put them up in his largest guest bedroom; it was nearly the size of Jack’s entire apartment. There was a large bed, a wall of books, a card table, a small fainting couch, and many small artifacts from Aldous’ travels. The room wasn’t _opulent_ in the way that Owen might have furnished it, but it was still a bit much for Jack.

Finally, Llewellyn clambered down off the chair, and Jack could call out to him.

“It’s not straight.”

Spinning to face him, Llewellyn broke into a happy, self-satisfied smile—as if he had been waiting for Jack. Llewellyn turned back to look at the painting and nodded. “So it is. It gives the impression of motion, like this.”

“Hm, I don’t think the trees need to be in motion, love.” Walking up to hold him from behind, Jack rested his chin on Llewellyn’s neck, transferring some of his weight onto him.

“Is this alright? It’s not hurting?” Llewellyn wrapped his arms over Jack’s, stabilizing him.

“No, it’s okay. I smoked some of Aldous’ opium, feeling very fine.” Jack kissed his sweetheart’s cheek, his lips still sore but healed enough for that much. “He told me you paid him, for the room. You’re taking such good care of us, love, thank you.”

Positively glowing at the praise, Llewellyn steered Jack towards the fainting couch. “You shouldn’t walk around on opium, you could fall over.”

Jack grumbled but allowed himself to be guided and fussed over. Llewellyn settled on the floor in front of him, his hand still entwined with Jack’s. They sat quietly for a moment, Jack’s fingers casually rubbing against the soft fuzz on the back of Llewellyn’s wrist. They were both mulling the day’s events, in their own ways.

In one corner of the room, there were six large suitcases—the entirety of Jack’s worldly possessions. Unless he could manage to get the rest from his apartment before the building superintendent sold it off… which, in his experience with landlords, was not likely.

Regardless, he had gotten most of the clothes, books, tools, and sentimental items he couldn’t make do without. There were a few things that he had to part with, but rather than any single thing, it was losing the apartment itself that was hardest to bear. He had lived there for over two years. He had memories there.

Edwards had taken so much from him.

Jack spoke first. “What are we going to do about Edwards? I get the sense that we haven’t seen the last of him.”

“No I think not.” Llewellyn raked his fingers against his jaw. “I think my inspector has scared him off arresting either of us. But we’ll need to be vigilant. Especially living together.”

“That’s going to be a challenge. I don’t think my last landlord will give me a reference.” Jack quipped, his heart clenching anxiously. “Maybe this isn’t the right time to move in. Until we’ve dealt with him.”

“What are you suggesting?”

“Well I’m certainly aiming a little lower than murder.” Jack and Llewellyn shared a tired groan; that conversation with Luc had been a nightmare. “But I thought, well, blackmail? Or at least something to leverage against him if he does threaten us.”

Llewellyn hummed. “Hmm yes that is worth considering. I have an idea—well a few actually—but I need to firm them up.” He tipped his head apologetically. “Not that I am keeping you in the dark, but the plans involve some _other_ people who may not wish to be involved at all.”

“I understand. I trust you, love, and I trust you talking to your friends about this.” Jack gestured to his broken body and ugly face. “I am not exactly much help in that regard.”

Llewellyn sat up taller, reaching out to trace his slim, pretty finger around the top buttons of Jack’s shirt. “Yes, but I wouldn’t be able to do it without you.”

Jack swallowed hard. Llewellyn’s open affections, his supportive words, his devoted glances—they were precious beyond measure.

“There was… a very lot of pressure today. And yesterday.” Llewellyn breathed heavily, his dark curls swaying over his beautifully vulnerable face. “I felt… well I still feel I didn’t do enough. But you…”

He paused for a while, but Jack did not interrupt. On occasions such as these, it could take him a moment to gather his thoughts.

Llewellyn trailed his fingers up to the side of Jack’s face, light touches. “Knowing that I would get home to you at the end of it all, talk to you like this, hold you… that helped me.”

Ever sweet, Llewellyn pressed a kiss to Jack’s forehead. Jack directed his mouth to his lips, tasted him properly, and _god_ _Llewellyn had the nerve to make that breathless little noise._

“How dare you act this irresistible while I am helpless to do anything about it?”

Licking his lips as if he were _trying_ to ruin him, Llewellyn answered, “You don’t seem so helpless, Mr. Walker.”

\---

Jack was not sleeping. He _should_ be; he needed to recuperate from his injuries as quickly as possible. But try as he might, he could not turn his mind towards rest.

Beside him, Llewellyn was sprawled out on his front—unbelievable that he could still breathe like that. Jack petted his soft black hair. Llewellyn didn’t stir at all; he was appropriately exhausted.

Jack hoped that Llewellyn was enjoying gentle, peaceful dreams. 

Quietly so as to avoid waking his partner, Jack climbed out of the large bed and hobbled across the carpet to the washbasin. He dipped a washcloth in the water and dabbed at what little parts of his face were exposed. The healing scrapes and bruises were itching like crazy. The splash of water was cooling, if not entirely effective.

With the cane Aldous had leant him, Jack made his way down the hall to the next room. There was lamp light streaming under the door.

“You’re up late.”

“Jesus Christ!” Luc jumped in surprise. “Jack, what the hell?”

“Hush, now. I was just coming to check on you.” Getting closer, he noticed that the lad was working on Jack’s pinstripe vest—the one he had been wearing when Edwards took him in. Some of the stitching had gotten ripped out and a few buttons had gone missing.

“I’m almost done.” Luc stabbed his sewing needle into a corner of the vest. “I’ll go to bed after, like ten more minutes, is all.”

“You got the blood out.” Jack pointed at the handsome copper brown vest, scrubbed clean of his blood stains.

“I thought you’d prefer that.” Luc smirked a bit, then got self-conscious. “I can get it looking mostly right. Mr. Watts said it would be okay.”

“He did, did he?” Jack smiled, feeling the cut over his lip tighten but not split. “I appreciate it, kid. But how about you get some sleep for now, have at it in the morning.”

Luc frowned. “But I won’t have time, gotta get up early to get into town, open up the shop, put in next week’s orders…” Luc continued to list off his tasks for the next day, seemingly eager to prove he had retained it all.

Jack felt the mixed pride and guilt to see his apprentice take on so much responsibility. It was frustrating to sit on the sidelines, but Jack knew he couldn’t work in his condition. Nor could he afford to let the butchery sit idle.

“You’ve got a full day ahead of you.” Jack nodded down at Luc. “All the more reason to get a good rest tonight.”

“Maybe for old geezers.” Luc grumbled.

“I’m not _that_ old.”

“ _I’m not that old_.” Luc mimicked a warbly, old voice, waving an imaginary cane.

“Now back in _my_ day, children respected their elders.” Jack punctuated his words with a little poke of his cane at Luc’s ribs.

“You’re not an elder, you’re a meal ticket.”

“I’d daresay I’m worth more than that.”

“Yeah, I guess you’re a roof over my head too.”

They were just having fun as they usually did, and then suddenly they were hugging and Jack had tears in his eyes and Luc’s hands were strangling the back of Jack’s shirt.

“M’sorry.” Luc mumbled.

Jack patted his back. “It’s alright kid. It’s all a bit of a mess right now, but we’ll get it sorted. You’ll do well at the shop tomorrow, I’m sure of it. And I’m just a telephone call away if something goes awry.”

“S’fine, I can handle it.”

“I know. I’m so proud.”

After convincing the kid to get to bed, Jack limped back to his room. Llewellyn was exactly as he left him: splayed out across the majority of the bed, sleeping as soundly as a corpse.

Jack slipped under the covers next to him. Llewellyn’s hair was matted against his forehead, and Jack tried to comb it out gently.

Llewellyn—his devoted, dogged protector—was more determined than ever to move in together. He was so decisive that even the obvious hang-ups seemed undaunting. They would find a way. They were going to live together, make a home, raise a family.

_I’m so proud._

What Jack would have given to have heard his father say those words to him even once. His father would never have understood Jack’s choices—why sacrifice comfort, security, status for the meagre rewards of authenticity and love? What would his father have said to see him now?

But this was Jack’s life, and it was good. Given the chance, Jack wouldn’t waver in any of the decisions that had brought him to this point. If that made his father roll over in his grave, then so be it. Jack didn’t have to answer to him anymore.

Jack tucked his hand against the back of Llewellyn’s and settled in for rest.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> That's it! That's the fic! Gosh I just love these two being soft parents.
> 
> I want to thank AnneTheCatDetective for their excellent works exploring Jack and Llewellyn's relationship, including their fic on Llewellyn Watts and Autism which I used as a reference.
> 
> Some of my main historical sources for this fic are this article (1) about life as a street kid in Toronto at the turn of the century and this super cool blog (2) of LGBT+ politics in Canada.  
> 1) https://www.celcis.org/files/5915/1265/4669/2017_Vol_1_3_Dunlop_T_Torontos_First_Street_Kids.pdf  
> 2) https://thedrummersrevenge.wordpress.com/histories/
> 
> Thank you for reading! All of your comments are precious, I just have anxiety about answering, but I really appreciate them.


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